


Steady is the Hand

by rhosinthorn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Master of Death Harry Potter, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 10:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 124,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23349970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhosinthorn/pseuds/rhosinthorn
Summary: She was a Ranger, a message rider, a spy, and she was content with all of that. Holly Potter had already led one dangerous effort to destroy a Horcrux, she was perfectly fine passing on the second. Except she wasn’t.
Comments: 291
Kudos: 1090





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Holly looked at the tea leaves in the bottom of her cup. She had never managed to divine anything from them, not the way Trelawney always harped on about, but she had learned to trust her instincts and her dreams, and both of them were telling her to go to Bree that evening.

Chapter One:

“I think I’m going into Bree today.”

“Mistress went last week,” Kreacher commented from where he was washing the breakfast dishes and supervising the bread rising on the corner of the table. “Mistress doesn’t have anything to sell.”

Holly looked at the tea leaves in the bottom of her cup. She had never managed to divine anything from them, not the way Trelawney always harped on about, but she had learned to trust her instincts and her dreams, and both of them were telling her to go to Bree that evening. “I’ll just go for the evening, catch up on the news with Barliman. If I get the chores done early, I can probably make it with plenty of time, especially if I don’t take the wagon.”

“Mistress should know it’s going to rain tonight,” the house elf reminded her as the dishes shook off the excess water before the drying towel went to work. With a snap of his fingers, the milk pans floated gently off the shelf in the cool cupboard above the washbasin and he started skimming the cream off the surface.

With a smile, Holly floated her tea cup over to the washbasin and stood from the table. “I’ll make sure to move the flock into the pen with the shed before I go then.”

Kreacher didn’t say anything more, but she heard him harrumph in reluctant approval. Pausing at the door, she briefly debated over whether or not she needed a cloak, but decided against it. It was almost oppressively hot, even for the end of September, and it probably meant Kreacher was right in claiming it was going to rain at night.

By the time she had herded her flock of sheep into the pen nearest the house, with its long, open shed to provide shelter from storms, it was nearly noon. Ignoring her hunger, she hurried through securing her garden against the weather, breaking in the early afternoon once everything was battened down.

“You’ll be fine here tonight?” she asked as she bolted the sandwiches Kreacher had kept for her. “Remember, you can always come and get me if something goes wrong.”

“Kreacher thinks Mistress forgets Kreacher has been alive longer than Mistress,” the old elf muttered, topping up her cup of tea. “Kreacher is perfectly capable of tending a house like this.”

Hiding her grin behind her hand, Holly nodded solemnly. “Of course,” she replied. “How could I forget Kreacher’s long service to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black?”

As the elf preened, Holly left him to clear her dishes and slipped into her bedroom to pack the few things she might need. Extra clothing, for if she was forced to spend the night in town, the stockings she was working to finish before winter came...enough money to cover any purchases she might make, all of it packed easily into her saddlebags, giving her plenty of room if something in the market caught her eye.

“I’m off now,” she announced, rejoining Kracher in the front room. “Anything special you might want from the market?”

“Kreacher heard Mistress saying she wanted more colors,” the elf replied as he sat down to work at the loom in the corner. “For the cloth.”

“I could see if they’ve got any dye,” she mused, glancing out the window at the approaching clouds and shrugging on her cloak. It would be stuffy, but she’d have to ride reasonably hard to reach the town by early evening with enough time to browse the market before the vendors started closing up shop. “Have a good evening Kreacher.”

It was easy to saddle her riding horse, since she had put him in the pen with the sheep while she finished her pre-storm chores around her small farm. Scratching Snuffles, her loyal sheepdog, behind the ears before she mounted up, Holly left what had become her home and headed for Bree.

* * *

“Can I trade you a night’s work for a spot in your stables Barliman?” she asked over the chatter of the early evening crowd and the drum of the rain on the roof above.

The innkeeper beamed at her as he filled a round of mugs. “Bless your heart Holly, I’m nearly overrun. This storm’s keeping everyone in town, and it’s just me and Nob tonight. Need a place for that horse of yours too?”

“If you’ve got room to spare.” Holly reached for the apron hanging on the hook behind the bar. It was one of Barliman’s spares, and frankly swamped her, but it was better than the hobbit sized ones the rest of the regular staff wore.Tying it tightly around her waist, she picked up the tray Barliman had finished filling and stepped out from behind the bar.

“I’ll have Bob put your horse up for the night then,” he said, pointing out the table waiting for her tray. “You left him out there?”

“I was hoping you’d need me,” she replied, lifting the tray above the head of a patron who brushed by her in a rush. “But Bob took him in out of the rain, so it should be just a matter of stabling him.”

It was easy to fall into the routine in the common room of the inn. Holly had worked there before, helping out after a long day at the market in exchange for room and board, and she liked Barliman. He reminded her of Hagrid, somewhat so in stature, but more so in character. She did raise an eyebrow at the sight of the Ranger occupying the back corner of the common room, but chose not to make a big deal of it. Usually the dunedain didn’t come into Bree proper, choosing instead to stop at Saeradan’s cabin for news, or meeting her on the edge of the Midgewater Marshes. To see one in Barliman’s common room, even stowed away in the corner like this one was, it was strange.

“That ‘un’s Strider, ‘cause of his longshanks,” Barliman grunted when she asked after the Ranger as they filled tankards behind the bar. “Decent sort, I suppose. Never makes any trouble. Why, has he given you problems?”

“No, no, he just doesn’t seem like our usual fare,” she answered with a laugh, waving away his concern as she lifted her refilled tray. “What can I say? I’m just a bit nosy about newcomers.”

Barliman laughed, and she moved through the common room, distributing orders. The innkeeper had been right; the inn was full up for the night. Holly recognized a number of merchants from the market, likely driven indoors by the rain, as well as townsfolk, who had followed the merchants likely hoping for news or stories, and a handful of men that she suspected had come up the Greenway from the south that had an unsavory air. Taking note of their numbers and faces, and who they were conversing with, she started planning her ride up to Saeradan’s cabin with news when she could get away from her work on the farm.

More and more men had come up the Greenway from the south, their very presence causing friction amongst those who lived in and around Bree. Part of it was that they were simply outsiders in a very insular community, but beyond that, they showed no interest in cooperating and becoming part of that community. Already Amdir, and the other dunedain posted in Southern Bree-Land, had cautiously sorted through some conflicts, careful not to let the Bree-folk know exactly how much they had intervened on their behalf.

While the Bree-folk were not openly antagonistic, it was clear that they thought very little of the dunedain, unaware of how much northern blood was shed in their defense. However, when it came to the southern strangers, the dunedain were practically neighbors, at least in the estimation of most residents.

The door swung open as she passed it, admitting a cluster of bedraggled hobbits. Lifting her tray over their heads, she sidestepped them quickly, looking for Barliman and tipping her head towards the new party. Holly only caught snippets of their conversation with Barliman, but she noted the strange accents and Barliman’s comment about the Shire. She’d never been that far west, but she knew enough about the region to know that it was inhabited by hobbits who rarely stepped outside its borders. Once or twice in the years she’d been settled in Bree-land, she’d come across a hobbit claiming to be from Buckland, on the eastern shores of the Brandywine River, but not any from inside the Shire.

Strider seemed very interested in the hobbits, and she noticed him arguing with Barliman about something in a low voice. When she and the innkeeper were next behind the counter, she asked what that had been about.

“He wanted to speak with those hobbits, but I wouldn’t have none of it,” the man declared quietly, preparing a tray for the group’s supper. “Gentle-hobbits, come up out of the Shire, they know nothing about folk like him that scrap around in the wilderness. Likely they’re out on a pleasure stroll or summat, and don’t need to be bothered by the likes of him. But there’s summat about that one hobbit, Underhill, that makes me think of something I’ve forgotten…”

Nob came to take the tray away, and Holly ventured back out into the common room from behind the bar, keeping an eye on the dunadan in the corner. They usually didn’t come into Bree, they usually paid little attention to hobbits, except to help in keeping the borders of the Shire secure, yet here one was, lurking at the Pony, trying to get an audience with a quartet of hobbits come up from the Shire.

Her instincts were telling her that something big was happening, and she didn’t like it.

Barliman seemed to share her sentiment, and when they met again behind the bar, his face showed unusual concern. “There’s summat odd going on, make no mistake,” he murmured as they filled their orders. “First those black men, now hobbits coming out of the Shire, and Strider turning up and deciding to get all nosy. All we need is Gandalf…Gandalf, now that’s what I’d forgotten. I’ll have to see if I can’t dig that up…”

“Black men?” Holly asked, trying to fish for more information. The innkeeper was usually willing to recite chapter and verse on the goings-on in Bree, but he was being surprisingly tight-lipped.

“Ah, summat’s looking out for you, they came down the Greenway, according to what I’ve heard. They were in town...Monday. Nob comes running in, all in a tizzy, saying some strange black men are at the gate, looking for a hobbit called Baggins. I sent ‘em straight on, wouldn’t have none of them folk here with good people, they gave me the shivers. But they’ve been up and down, east to west, all the way up into Archet, and out towards Buckland. Nasty business. I’ll be right glad when we stop getting strange folk coming from hither and yon.”

He bustled off, leaving Holly to man the taps for a while as she mulled over the information he had given her.

There wasn’t a lot of racial variation amongst the Bree-folk, so it could have been possible that Barliman’s black man could have been just a dark skinned man, but the way he said it suggested that black was less a description of the man’s skin color and more a comment on his character. If he came down the Greenway, the man had to have passed both Saeradan’s cabin and her own farm without being noticed, or without approaching them, which suggested that he was not coming from the dunedain encamped in the North Downs.

The only other option was that he came from Angmar, and that was enough to put her on edge.

Her feeling of uneasiness grew as the night wore on and three of the four hobbits from the Shire entered the common room. They were received jovially enough, practically adopted by the local hobbits, but Mr. Underhill seemed uneasy, and Strider’s focus was fixed on him.

She wanted to throw a tankard at the hobbit when he eventually ventured over to Strider’s corner. Strider was probably not a danger, since the dunedain were committed to protection and defense, not destruction, but most of the time they left the hobbits alone and committed themselves to pushing back the enemy. Either way, it was foolish and entirely Gryffindor of the hobbit to march right over to the man and start a conversation.

They spoke briefly, and then Mr. Underhill jumped up onto a table and began a rousing song, to much applause and many calls for an encore. Holly watched, wishing she could cause some sort of fuss without it looking intentional, just something to distract attention from the hobbit. Her instincts were screaming that something was about to happen, that there was something wrong in the common room, and it was starting to drive her mad, like an itch left unscratched.

When the feeling peaked, the hobbit slipped on a tray of drinks that Barliman had carried over at the beginning of the hobbit’s performance, and sent the entire contents, and himself along with it, to the floor. Snatching up a dishrag, Holly moved to go clean the mess, but before she could move more than a step, she swayed sideways, feeling as if she’d been hit by a hammer. Something, something powerful, was magically active in the common room, and she’d bet every penny to her name that Underhill was responsible, and this was what she’d been picking up on ever since she’d woken up that morning.

Gathering herself, she headed for the spot of the incident, only to find Underhill nowhere in sight and his companions suddenly shunned by all and sundry. Mopping up the spilled ale and gathering the tankards, she braced herself using her hand, trying to feel for the source of the magical disturbance she had felt.

To her displeasure, it felt rotten, fetid magic like slime against her senses. Even Number Twelve, when she had first set to cleaning it out after the war, hadn’t felt like this. Only the drawing room cabinet had felt even remotely similar…

A frisson of ice ran down her spine. That cabinet had been where Kreacher had stored the locket horcrux. After years of the horcrux’s absence, not much remained in the way of magical traces, but she had been able to sense it, even before she had learned to properly sense magic. This felt like that cabinet, but stronger.

Before she could get a proper lock on its location, the magical trace...stopped. Frowning, she noticed that most of the strange southerners had departed, and Underhill was once again in the corner of the common room occupied by Strider.

Barliman bustled over, blocking her view of the pair. “I think we’re just about done for the night,” he said to the remaining crowd at large, and the crowd murmured its agreement. Slowly, in small groups or pairs, they wandered out, either to their homes, or to their rooms. Holly hurried through wiping down the tables and washing the pile of tankards, wishing she had the convenience of her enchanted dish tub from home to help speed the process along. Barliman had disappeared after the last patron had left the common room, so there was no way she could beg off for a breath of fresh air. At some point in the evening, the rain had stopped, and it seemed like a pleasant early fall night.

A horcrux, she thought, scrubbing tankards furiously and upending them on the shelf to dry. All the years I’ve been in these lands, and the first magical artifact I come across is a horcrux.

Finally, Barliman returned, looking ashen pale under the usual ruddy hue of his skin. “I know you meant to bed down outside in the loft,” he said as he barred the main door with short, jerky movements, “but I think it’d be best if you stayed in here for the night. There’s a bit o’ space up in the attic, if you don’t mind, or you could kip down here on one of the benches.”

“Something wrong, Barliman?” Holly asked, wondering what he could have heard or seen to frighten him like this.

“Mr. Brandybuck was attacked taking a walk outside,” the innkeeper said hoarsely, pushing a heavy table up against the door. “And there’s talk of those black men again. Best you stay indoors, and close to other folks.”

“Brandybuck? One of the hobbits with Mr. Underhill?”

“That’s th’ one,” he agreed, mopping his brow with a corner of his apron. “Seems like there’s trouble about, and they’re well in the middle of it.”

He shooed her off to bed, and Holly hung up her borrowed apron and picked up her saddlebags and cloak from where she had left them behind the bar. Saying her goodnights to Barliman, who was retiring to his own quarters off the kitchen, she headed for the guest rooms.

On her way, she bumped into Nob, who was looking grimly cheerful. “I hear you’re to stay the night at the Pony,” the hobbit said with a smile. “It’s a shame; we’ve a set of hobbit size rooms vacant that you could’ve used, but only since it’s not safe for ‘em to be used tonight, at least according to that Strider.”

“The Shire hobbits aren’t in their rooms?” Holly asked, ignoring his quip about her height. Just because she was shorter than most, even here, didn’t mean she was hobbit height.

“They’re in with the Ranger,” Nob confided lowly, after checking to make sure they were alone. “According to Mr. Butterbur, there’s dark folk about, and it’s best that Mr. Underhill ain’t where he was planning on being tonight. Brr,” he shivered. “An’ with what happened to Mr. Brandybuck, lying out on the cobblestones like he was, I don’t blame them for being a bit unnerved, no I don’t. Strider seems spooky, but he’s always been decent sort to us hobbits, when he deals with us at all.”

Bidding him a goodnight, Holly headed further towards the guest quarters, but making sure she headed for the man sized hallway, instead of the hobbit rooms she had intended to visit. While Barliman had been out, leaving her with the washing up, she had stolen a look at the guest ledger to see where Strider was, in case she needed to speak with him later.

Arriving at the door, tucked away at the far side of the building, she rapped lightly, not wanting to alert any of the other guests to her presence. When no answer came, she rapped again, slightly louder.

This time, she heard a chair shift, and the door opened a crack. Strider glanced out at her. “No thank you,” he said, preparing to close the door, but she wedged her foot in the gap between the door and frame and refused to let him shut it in her face. “I am not interested in company for the night,” he repeated more firmly, applying pressure on the door, but she refused to remove her foot.

“I’m not here for you,” she murmured quietly, ignoring his insinuation that she had come to his room to offer to warm his bed. He was certainly attractive enough, but she wasn’t looking for a partner right now. “I’m here for the company you already have. I need to speak with Mr. Underhill.”

“There’s no Underhill here,” the man said flatly. “You have the wrong room. Try the hobbit wing.”

Sighing, she played her trump card. “Somewhere in the north is hid/A hope for all to see.”

He stared at her for a long moment, and sighed. Muttering something about obscure poetry, he opened the door just enough for her to slip inside.

The hobbits were bedded down by the fire, and she headed straight for Underhill, but a firm grip on her arm prevented her from taking more than a few steps into the room. “Not so quickly,” Strider said shortly, pulling her back towards the door, which he had closed, and placed a chair against. Motioning her towards the chair, he refused to let her go until she sat down. “Where did that verse come from?”

“Two trees begat three gems/Sky, fire, sea/The choice of a single man/Birthed a line of kings/May the seven stars yet shine/Above the white tree.” The words rolled off her tongue easily; she’d been drilled in them until she could recite the verse at the drop of a hat. They were used between the dunedain in the North Downs to establish identity, and she’d used it fairly often, riding between outposts as a messenger.

“How did you learn it?” Strider asked, eyes fixed on her, even as the hobbits shifted and sat up behind him.

“From my handler,” she said shortly, not willing to possibly compromise the hidden outpost in the North Downs. “You can confirm my identity with Saeradan, Amdir, or Mundol.”

Strider looked grimmer than before. “Amdir and Mundol are dead.”

“Dead?” she whispered. She had checked in with Mundol a week before, since Amdir was supposed to be out on an errand. He and the other dunedain at the outpost near the Midgewater Pass were healthy and the outpost undiscovered. “How?”

“That’s not your concern at the moment,” Strider motioned the hobbits to stay back as one of them tried to venture forward. “How do you know them?”

She grimaced, knowing that she’d have to give up her cover story, at least to the occupants of the room. Stalling for a moment, she got her hand placed against the door and wove a silencing charm around the room. Once she was certain she couldn’t be overheard, she looked at the man standing in front of her and said: “I rode messages between encampments of the Dunedain for a time. They called me Thuri.”

He looked startled. “A woman? No, never mind that. I thought Thuri had been killed in the fields of Fornost?”

“Angmar was starting to pay too much attention to me,” Holly admitted with a grimace. “They knew that messages were getting passed between the garrisons in Evendim and the North Downs, and started to hunt down anyone riding across the Fields with a particular vengeance. Combining that with the fact that I’d made a bit of a name for myself further north meant that I had to disappear for a while. I was relocated to Bree-land, to help keep watch on things here.”

“But you’re not one of the dunedain?” Strider asked, eyes sweeping over her frame.

“No, I’m not of the blood of Numenor,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “It’s obvious, what with my height. I worked as a go-between for the northern clansmen and the dunedain before I had to move south.”

He seemed as if he had more questions for her, but her patience was wearing thin. “I need to speak with Underhill. You’ve verified my identity, now do you trust me?”

“Thuri was reported dead in the Fields,” Strider repeated firmly. “You could very well be an imposter, sent by the Enemy to seek the hobbits. If you truly are who you say you are, you can bring word from your handler to Imladris. Someone there will be able to verify what you say, and the folk who dwell in Imladris will be able to get a message to me.”

“Well, I had best be off then,” Holly snapped, moving to rise from the chair, but Strider’s hand on her shoulder pushed her back down into it. “What now?”

“You can leave in the morning,” Strider said pleasantly, though his eyes were cool. “In the meantime, I prefer to have you where I can keep my eyes on you. Why don’t you sleep over on the bed, and the four of you can move over to the other side of the fireplace?”

The hobbits shuffled over, placing the fireplace between them and the bed, and Holly rolled her eyes and headed for the bed. Ignoring the bedding already on it, she draped her saddlebags over the footboard and wrapped herself in her cloak, propping herself up against the wall. Pointedly, she didn’t take her boots off, and Strider studied her for a long moment before taking her former place in the chair. Ignoring him, and the hobbits, she closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall. Between her time in the north, and all the way back to the Voldemort War, she had learned how to sleep when she could, regardless of the circumstances.

* * *

When she woke in the morning, the hobbits were slowly waking and Strider was still sitting in the chair, looking as if he’d been there all night. Picking up her saddlebags, and fastening her cloak around her, Holly moved to stand in front of him. “Might I leave now? It’s a long ride to the North Downs.”

Silently, he moved aside, turning his attention to the hobbits clustered in the corner. Irritated by the delay, and his overprotectiveness of Underhill, she headed for the common room.

Barlimin was already there, getting things ready for the morning service, looking shaken. “The stable doors were opened during the night,” he told her lowly as Holly approached the bar. “All the beasts stabled inside are gone, even yours.”

If she hadn’t been in Strider’s room, she might have suspected him of setting the horses loose during the night in an attempt to buy himself some time. As it was, she knew she slept lightly enough to hear if he had tried to leave the room, and nothing had woken her during the night. Running her hand through her hair, still pinned up into its bun, but parts were beginning to escape after the long night, Holly sighed in exasperation. She would have a long walk back to the farm, and a ride made longer by the fact that the lost horse was her riding mount, not the horse she had to haul her wagon.

“Your ponies are missing,” Barliman informed a group that had come into the common room behind her, and Holly turned to see Strider and the four hobbits enter the room. The hobbits broke out into low chatter behind the man, and the Ranger scowled.

“We’ll need a beast for the provisions at the very least; the paths I mean to walk would not be faster on pony.”

“You won’t find many beasts for sale in Bree,” the innkeeper said mournfully. “And what there is, will be mighty expensive after a night like tonight.”

“I’ve got a spare mount back on my farm,” Holly offered impulsively, already regretting it. She would have to walk even further to Saeradan’s cabin to see if she couldn’t borrow his mount to make the ride to Esteldin. “If you’re willing to walk up the Greenway a bit, you’re welcome to him.”

Strider eyed her warily, but the hobbits seemed eager. Barliman was beaming at her, and Holly was stuck trying to work out why she had even made the offer in the first place. Glancing at Underhill, she wished Strider had allowed her to question him, but she suspected that they were heading for Rivendell, and from what she had heard, it was one of the last great repositories of knowledge. Hopefully, if the hobbit was truly carrying a horcrux, they would be able to at least stave off any attempts at possession until she got there. In that case, it was in her best interest to get him there quickly, since she had no idea how long it would take her to track down Halbarad, who was more often in and out of Esteldin as need demanded.

“Well, you’d best be off then,” Barliman said cheerfully, smiling at them. “I’ll send a runner if your horse comes back Holly. Don’t fret, he can’t have gone too far.”

“You can stock up on supplies at my farm as well,” Holly muttered to Strider as they headed for the inn’s door, no longer barred and blocked by a heavy table. “If I’m going up north, you’ll have more need of things than me.”

“And this is supposed to make me trust you more?” he replied as they headed through the west gate, the hobbits trailing behind them like ducklings.

“If I’m reading you right, the only thing that will make me trust you is assurances from my handler, and I can’t get those without going north,” she retorted, emphasizing the word as he had the night previously. “But I have a vested interest in getting Underhill to Imladris, so chalk it up to me wanting to make sure he actually gets there.”

“What’s your interest in the hobbit?”

“If you’re not willing to share, I’m not willing to share,” she said primly, and they walked up the Greenway in silence. The hobbits grizzled a bit about breakfast, but Strider passed back apples and told them that they wouldn’t be stopping until they had reached the farm.

Kreacher must have let the sheep out to the larger pasture that morning, because they weren’t in the pen with the shed. He was thankfully out of sight for the moment, but Snuffles came bounding up, stopping short and growling at Strider and the hobbits until she signalled they were friends. Then he came in for pets and ear scratches, first from her, then from the hobbits, before warily accepting them from Strider.

“Make a list of what you need in the way of supplies while I go find Pebbles,” she announced, and the hobbits immediately camped out by the side of the sheep shed, opening their packs and talking about breakfast, all while Strider leaned disapprovingly against the fence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ride as hard as you dare. If you come across Strider and the hobbits in the wilderness, it might be best for you to join them. And when you get the chance, I advise you to tell him everything.”

Riding into Esteldin, on Saeradan’s spare mount, Holly dismounted and turned him over to the boy acting as stablehand. “I may need him in a hurry, so don’t unsaddle him yet,” she warned the boy, deepening her voice with a twist of magic to match the man’s tunic and trousers she was wearing. 

Once Strider and the hobbits had left, leading Pebbles, who was loaded down with supplies, she had changed into her own Ranger gear, swapped out the contents of her saddlebags, and picked up her bow. Kreacher had been ordered to keep the farm running until she told him otherwise, and then Holly headed up the Greenway to Saeradan’s cabin. Thankfully the Ranger was willing to let her borrow his spare, especially with the troubling news she brought from Bree, but he hadn’t bothered to explain what he knew about Strider. He was bad at masking his surprise at the name, but refused to tell her what was important about the man, saying it wasn’t his place.

Still irritated by the refusal, she stalked through the enclave, searching for a familiar face. Finally, she found one.

“Daervunn!” she barked, causing the man to startle and look up. Crossing the distance between them, she grabbed his arm and snapped: “Is Halbarad in the enclave, or is he elsewhere?”

“He’s here, but you’re supposed to be in Bree…” the man replied slowly. “What’s going on?”

“I need to speak with Halbarad,” she said, brushing by him and heading for the Halbarad’s private study. If he was in residence, it was most likely that he was inside. “There’s news from Bree, and none of it good.”

Thankfully, her target was at the desk in his study, looking over what was probably a stack of reports. Daervunn trailed after her as she stormed in, but she ignored him for the moment. “I need proof that I’m affiliated with you to show to another Ranger.”

“Why aren’t you in Bree?” was his first question, but he waved it aside almost immediately, asking: “What about the usual passphrase?”

“I gave him the phrase _and_ the whole verse, but he refused to trust me and sent me to you. I’m supposed to get proof and bring it to Imladris.”

“According to Saerdan’s reports, you’d made contact with all of the _d_ _unedain_ in Bree-land, except for the new arrival down by Buckland, but you don’t ever go there,” Halbarad said, shuffling through his papers. “It’s not Lenglinn, is it?”

“He wouldn’t give me his proper name,” she hissed, throwing herself into the chair next to him. “In Bree, he’s apparently called Strider.”

Both men startled at that, turning to look at her slowly. Scowling, she threw up her hands and slouched in her seat. “Wonderful! Everyone knows this man except for me.”

“Why didn’t you go to Amdir? He’s supposed to be in charge of operations in Bree-land.”

Halbarad’s question made her sober up, putting aside her irritation. “Amdir is dead. So is Mundol and his entire outpost, at least according to Strider. Saeradan, Linnor, this Lenglinn, and I are the only ones left.”

“Amdir is dead? No wonder he’s getting involved,” Halbarad murmured, setting aside his reports. “Why did you come in contact with Strider at all?”

“There was an incident in the _Prancing Pony_.” Holly related the events of the night the hobbits had arrived, not omitting the magic she had sensed and her attempt to follow it. “The closest thing I can compare it to is a soul fragment, something I encountered once and hoped never to see again.” she explained, knowing that these two men alone knew that she had magic, that it could be used rudimentarily to shield her. They had talked once, soon after she came to them, of seeking out Gandalf, or another of the Istari, but she had argued that even as limited as she was, she was more useful being put to work than trying to track down an elusive wizard. “It...a soul fragment, separated from the original soul, keeps the soul from passing through the Halls of Mandos, keeps the soul anchored here, in Arda.”

“ _Isildur’s bane_ ,” Halbarad murmured, the words slipping from his mouth like an oath. “It has been found at last. That explains Gandalf’s request.”

“Will someone _please_ tell me what’s going on?” Holly snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. “Otherwise, I’m going to get back on the horse, find my way to Rivendell, and bang on the door until someone lets me examine the soul fragment.”

“When the Enemy was defeated long ago, by the last great alliance of elves and men, the second high king in the north, Isildur, cut a ring from the Enemy’s finger. Immediately, the darkness subsided, and the day was won by men and elves. Gil-galad and Elendil perished, along with many others, but Isildur survived, taking the Enemy’s ring with him. When Isildur was murdered in the Gladden Fields, the ring was thought lost, but Gandalf came to us recently, looking for lore about the Enemy’s ring.”

“It was said,” Halbarad continued, picking up the story from Daervunn, “that a great deal of the Enemy’s power, and his malice, was bound up in the creation of the ring, and that was why he fell when it was cut from his hand. It could very well be this soul fragment you described, and it could be that the hobbit Underhill has come into possession of this terrible treasure.”

Seizing a blank piece of paper, he wrote a brief note, before folding it and sealing it with a daub of red wax. Pressing his seal into it, he handed it to her. “Take this to Imladris, as quickly as you can ride. Give it only into the hands of Elrond, Strider, or Gandalf. Tell anyone else that I have sent you, if they ask.”

“Do you have a map of the route?” she asked, taking the letter and tucking it into her belt pouch, enchanted to be magically expanded.

Pulling down two scrolls after a moment of studying the array tucked into the shelves above his desk, Halbarad unrolled the first. “This is the Forsaken Inn. Follow the road out of Bree, and go straight east along it after the Inn. There are rumors of an enclave of men in the hills, but the land is desolate and the people grew strange, after the fall of the northern kingdom. Do not stray from the path once you have passed the inn. What allies you have in those lands I cannot say for sure. There are a few Rangers who watch the Lone Lands, but I rarely know where they are at any given time.”

Opening the other map, he laid it out next to the first. “This is the Last Bridge. Once you cross this, be on your guard. Sixty years ago there were trolls bold enough to come down from the mountains; it is anyone’s guess what is breeding there now. Ride until you reach the Bruinen Fords, and then climb to the flatlands above and ride north. Either you will find the gate to Imladris, or their outriders will find you. There may be patrols from Imladris in the Trollshaws, but I would not count on them.”

She stood as he stood, and he clapped her heavily on her shoulder. “Be on your guard, Thuri,” he murmured. “Ride as hard as you dare. If you come across Strider and the hobbits in the wilderness, it might be best for you to join them. And when you get the chance, I advise you to tell him _everything_.”

* * *

When Holly rode into her farm, Snuffles charged up to greet her. Saerdan’s spare mount shyed at the dog’s approach, but Holly slid off and quieted Snuffles, leading the horse the rest of the way towards the fence.

Looping the reins over the top rail, she headed for the house, knowing she needed to talk with Kreacher before figuring anything out. Saerdan’s mount would need a breather before he drank anything, after the pace she set coming down from Trestlebridge.

There was a scrap of paper nailed to the door, and she pulled it free as she opened the door, jiggling the lock and undoing her wards.

_Holly,_

_Your mount came back. I left his tack in the sheepshed and turned him loose._

_Bob_

Well, that was well timed. “Kreacher?” she called, seeing the main room of the house empty.

Appearing without a sound, the house elf looked up at her with crossed arms. “Mistress has been away.”

“I told you, I think we’re dealing with another horcrux,” Holly said, tossing the strip of paper into the embers on the hearth. “If I’m right, I’m the only one who might be able to help with it. And that means I have to go to Imladris.”

Sniffing, the house elf snapped his fingers, and bowls began floating down from the shelves to rest on the table. “Kreacher will make travel bread for his mistress who insists on being away from Kreacher.”

“You’re welcome to come with me,” she offered, glancing at the elf as he moved over to orchestrate the baking process. “You’d have to be unseen when there are others around, but I wouldn’t make you stay here if you didn’t want to.” When she’d been riding messages, she was rarely gone from their current home for more than a day or two, but this trip would take her further than she’d ever ridden before, and she didn’t know how long it would take to convince anyone about the horcrux, if the ring was truly one as she suspected.

“And who will take care of Mistress’s sheep?” the house elf countered as he began mixing batter and getting the oven hot enough for baking. “Kreacher will stay here.”

“I was going to offer to send the sheep north to Esteldin. With the refugees trickling in from further north, and the east, they’ll be able to pass them off as rescues until we can take them back.” Entering the small bedroom that she had added after deciding she didn’t want to have her bed in the main room unlike how it originally had been structured, she opened up her wardrobe. Kreacher was perfectly happy with the corner of the loft she’d set aside for him, and they didn’t need a ton of space since most of what they’d recovered from Grimmauld Place when they left had been left in expanded trunks, which were packed into a single trunk in her cellar.

Setting her saddlebags on the bed, she emptied them of the supplies she had brought to Esteldin and opened the false floor in the wardrobe to reveal the rest of her Ranger apparel. For a moment, she considered how many changes she would need, and then she shrugged and rolled everything she had into neat bundles.Her saddlebags were weightless and extended; she’d have enough room.

Turning to leave the room, she paused, then returned to the wardrobe. Grabbing one of her work dresses, she bundled it up and stowed it at the bottom of the saddlebags. Experience had taught her that she could sometimes benefit from dressing as a woman, instead of just attempting to pass as a man the way she usually did outside of the settlements she’d grown to deem as safe.

Kreacher was loading the first batch of waybread into the oven when she reappeared. “Mistress can trust in Kreacher. Kreacher will keep sheep safe.”

“If I’m going to be away for a long time, I’ll call for you,” she promised, gathering a bundle of carded wool and her drop spindle. She might have to wait in Rivendell, depending on which paths Strider was taking the hobbits along. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

Shaking his head, the house elf pointed to the door. “Kreacher be capable elf. Mistress frets too much. Go take care of Ranger horse.”

“I’ll just pony him up to Saerdan and let him know where I’m going,” she said, leaving her saddlebags on the table. “I’ll stop back before I go and say goodbye.”

* * *

She stopped at the _Pony_ on her way out, leaving a note with Nob, claiming that she’d been contracted by the lady on the farm to bring it to Barliman. With her voice masked by a charm, and her hood and cowl obscuring her face, nobody in Bree recognized her. It meant she got a cold reception, but that didn’t matter. Once she was past the south gate, she mounted up and headed east.

* * *

Stopping at the Forsaken Inn for the night, she settled into the corner of the taproom to listen to the news. Unfortunately, all of it played into the bad feeling she’d been having ever since she’d left Strider and the hobbits.

“I tell you, there were lights on the old hill,” one of the regulars was saying, gesturing with his tankard somewhere vaguely to the north. “Two nights ago, and then three nights afore that! Summat strange is happening, believe you me.”

“Like fireworks they were,” another woman chimed in, sliding onto one of the benches at the main table. “Strange times we have, and we don’t need none of it here.”

“That’s the old watchtower, right?” Holly risked the question, wanting to orient herself. She had checked the map earlier, before she had left the room she’d been assigned, and there was an old watchtower from when the northern kingdom was divided into three. When she had ridden in, she thought she had made out the shape of a ruined watchtower in hills north of the inn.

“Back from when we actually had a king sitting on some throne,” the barkeep said, spitting into the fire, likely as a reflection of his opinion of the fall of the northern throne. “Not that any of them gave a lick about us. Just left us to dangle out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“There were lights on the hill,” someone else protested, and the entire taproom devolved into arguments about the watchtower and what had been seen.

As she settled back to listen, mentally taking notes, Holly couldn’t help but think about Amon Sûl, _Weathertop_. The place where Elendil had stood to watch for Gil-galad’s army at the end of the last age. A shiver ran down her spine as she wondered what she might see if she stood atop it and gazed out.

* * *

She left early in the morning, before most of the inn’s occupants were awake. Saddling her mount, she fastened her saddlebags and set off down the road.

Another check of her map showed that the road ran over a bridge and then wandered through a densely hilled area until it crossed another river and wound up until it reached a section of flat lands. Unfortunately, there was no way for her to tell how long it would take her to reach Rivendell.

The scenery around her was unchanging; scrub grass on jagged hills, a country where a single traveller could pass unseen if they had the skills and knowledge to do so. Sometimes Holly thought she saw flickers of movement, but there was nobody else on the road. At noon, she’d dismount and walk for a time, resting her mount, and at night she’d find a sheltered hollow just off the road, wrap herself in her cloak, and eat sparingly of the rations Kreacher had packed for her.

Midway through her second day out from the Inn, she found a small spring just to the north of the road, surrounded by ruined walls, but otherwise abandoned. She felt no taint in it though, and it tasted pure enough, untouched by whatever destruction had fallen upon the spring and the ruins on the hillside overlooking it. That night, she heard howling, a sound she hadn’t heard since she had left the North Downs and the well trodden paths of her message routes. There were wolves abound in this desolate land, wolves, or possibly wargs. Her horse shifted uneasily, but Nor was Esteldin trained and wouldn’t bolt at the sound, though he had no love for it.

On her fourth day out from the Inn, six days since she’d set out from Bree, she spotted a lone rider, and dismounted immediately. Drawing her hood further over her face, she led Nor into the shadows cast by the banks on either side of the road and pressed forward, careful not to let either of them make a sound. A hand on the leather of her horse’s tack silenced any jangling buckles, and she crept forward, wondering who this other traveller was.

The wind shifted as she drew closer, carrying the clear sound of bells ringing on the air. From what she could see, the bridle the horse was wearing was bedecked with jewels, and it almost seemed as if the rider bore an aura of white light around him.

For a moment, she thought about cloaking herself, about remaining hidden, but then she noticed the golden hair and felt a whisper that felt like magic, a whisper of something she hadn’t felt since before she had left Aughaire for Donnvail years ago. It was that whisper that made up her mind, and she slipped out of the shadows of the bank 

* * *

“ _Mae govannen_ ,” she called carefully, maintaining the charm on her voice to keep it vaguely masculine. “I am looking for a _dunadan_ and four hobbits. Have you seen them?”

“ _Mae govannen_ ,” the rider replied, halting in front of her. “I would ask why you are looking for your kin, but while you may be a Ranger, you are not a _dunadan_.”

Rolling her eyes, Holly responded: “It’s the height isn’t it?”

“I have never seen a single of my fair cousins stand so close to the ground,” the elf said, dismounting with a bright laugh. “But I too come in search of the hobbits; to hear that they are in the company of one of the _dunedain_ cheers my spirits.”

“Four hobbits, and the _dunedan_ known as _Strider_ by the men of Bree, set out from that very town twelve days ago, journeying to Rivendell. I went north at first, and then set out myself to Rivendell.” Holly grimaced as she glanced at the river in the distance. “I had hoped to meet them on the road, but I fear I will not see them again until I reach Rivendell.”

“They have not yet reached Imladris,” he replied, stroking his mount’s neck. “Word came from my kin that the Nine were abroad, and that a hobbit was walking east with a dangerous burden, and Elrond Peredhel sent me in search of him. I am pursuing three of them that I came upon earlier; watching the bridge, which leads me to believe the hobbits have not yet crossed over into the Trollshaws.”

“I have seen no other living soul on the roads, friend or foe.”

“What business took you north?” The elf looked at her out of the corner of his eye, and she sighed.

“Halbarad of the _Dunedain_ placed me in Bree to support the defenses of the northern kingdom, but when I attempted to offer my assistance to Strider, who had already taken on the hobbits as his charges, he would not trust in the established verifications and bade me ride north to his brethren to obtain further verification of my trustworthiness. I would offer it to you, but he bade me not to show it to anyone but Strider, Elrond, or Gandalf.” Holly did her best to keep her voice level and not betray the irritation she still felt when she thought of how wary Strider had been, but she could tell it showed.

“You may keep your verification, Ranger!” the elf laughed, and Holly saw some of the tension bleed out of his posture. “This meeting ought to prove fortuitous to us both. Here I was torn between pursuing the servants of the Enemy and ensuring that the bridge remained open, should I miss the hobbits, and you now come along. If you will stay at the Bridge and ensure it remains open for our wanderers, I will go in search of the servants of the Enemy.”

“And if the company has already crossed, or finds another crossing?” Holly was wary that the elf was attempting to divert her, to leave here with a task that would end fruitlessly and give Strider and the hobbits a chance to reach Rivendell and make decisions without her being able to examine the horcrux that Underhill carried.

“Then you will ride with me to Imladris, and we will meet them there. Now, may I have your name, and something we can use to identify ourselves when we meet again?”

“You can call me _Thuri_ ,” she answered with a shrug. Names had become meaningless to her since her arrival in Middle Earth. Each of the peoples she dwelled with called her by something different, depending on what she meant to them. “And the passphrase I use with the Rangers is _May the seven stars yet shine, above the white tree_.”

“Well met, Thuri who rides with the _Dunedain_.” Giving her a polite bow, the elf said: “I am Glorfindel. Your passphrase is curious, given whom you have ridden out in search of.”

“One of these days someone is going to explain to me who this _Strider_ truly is,” Holly muttered under her breath. Glorfindel laughed quietly, the sound drawing her attention, and she froze. “Wait, Glorfindel? _The_ Glorfindel, of Gondolin?”

“Later, my friend,” the elf said, mounting his horse. “One day we will sit in the Hall of Fire in Imladris and you may hear all the stories you wish, so long as there are those who wish to tell them! But for now, the enemy is fleeing and there is a crossing which needs watching. If Strider and the hobbits approach, it is up to you whether you ride with them or stay and wait for me at the bridge. Farewell, Thuri!”

In a chime of bells, he rode off, leaving Holly to stare after him. After a long moment, she sighed, and mounted Nor, moving towards the bridge as quickly as she could.

* * *

She had been camped in the shadow of the bridge for two days when she heard the faint sound of a person upon the road. Leaving Nor picketed under the bridge, she slithered up through the brush, careful not to make a sound as she approached.

To her relief, it was Strider she found, kneeling to examine a patch of mud near the bridge supports. As she stood, he looked up, hand going to the hilt of his sword.

“The _dunedain_ are not usually so short,” he said warily, and Holly contemplated stabbing the next person to comment on her height. “And they rarely come so far east.”

Tugging her cowl down, Holly smirked as he raised his eyebrow at her. “Halbarad sends his regards,” she said coolly, reaching into the hidden pocket where she carried his letter. “I do hope you haven’t lost my horse.”

“I thought you planned to ride to Rivendell,” Strider replied easily, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Yet I find you here on the banks of the Hoarwell.”

“Two days ago I met with Glorfindel of Gondolin, and he bade me to watch the bridge while he pursued the servants of the Enemy that he had driven from it.”

“That certainly explains the elf stone I was examining,” Strider said, toeing something loose from the mud before bending to pick it up. “Did he say in which direction the riders fled?”

“They went west,” she replied with a shrug. “Would you like the letter from Halbarad, or shall I simply ride ahead to Rivendell once you’ve crossed?”

Removing his hand from the sword hilt, he took the letter from her and examined the seal before breaking it open. Whatever Halbarad had written seemed to amuse him, given the faint smirk he wore as he glanced up at her. “So _Thuri_ rides again. As you are likely aware, our methods of carrying messages are less than reliable.”

“Yet at least they are secure,” she countered. It had taken some creativity and a few iterations of trial and error, but at least every messenger who rode out from one of the Ranger encampments carried their messages in a pouch enchanted to cede its contents only to _dunedain_ or elves. If a servant of the enemy attempted to breach them, the messages would destroy themselves, much like a spent howler. “Now, have you lost my horse and your companions?”

“They are hidden in the hills while I investigated the crossing,” Strider said, tipping his head slightly towards the hills to the south. “Be ready upon my return; we will cross and then get off the road as quickly as possible. I do not like being out in the open.”

Nodding, Holly slipped back through the brush to her tiny campsite under the bridge. Making sure the ashes from the smokeless fire she had built to boil water were covered, she led Nor out of the shadows before kneeling and sending a brief pulse of magic through the ground, willing it to smooth out and restore itself to the state she had first found it in.

When she returned to the bridge, Strider and the hobbits were approaching, Underhill atop Pebbles, and the hobbits as a whole looking concerned.

“What happened to him?” she asked as they drew close enough to speak.

“We had an encounter with the riders on Amon Sûl eight days ago,” Strider said shortly, leading Pebbles to where she stood. “He’s been stabbed by a Morgul blade. We must get him to Rivendell.”

Briefly, she rested her hand on the hobbit’s calf as Strider led him by, and she frowned at what her magic was telling her. It was a confusing mix of sensations, masked somewhat by the presence of the horcrux she knew the hobbit carried, but she could sense he was in no immediate danger, and there was nothing she would be able to do for him, at least nothing that she knew how to do.

“Put the packs on Nor,” she said, motioning to the bundles Pebbles was carrying, despite Underhill riding. “We’ll be able to move much faster that way.” Technically Pebbles was better used as a packhorse, but he was solid and steady, better for carrying an injured person unfamiliar with riding than Nor, who was born and trained to be a messenger’s mount, though she’d augmented his training.

They paused briefly to reshuffle, and then Strider set out, grimly leading, with one of the hobbits following, Pebbles’s reins clasped tightly in his hand. Holly found herself bringing up the rear with Nor, the younger two hobbits in front of her.

“Are you certain we can’t stick to the road?” she asked, eyeing the wilderness to the north of the bridge distrustfully. Her map was rather short on topographical details for the region between the Hoarwell and the Misty Mountains, but from what she could see, it was forests and hills, and if there were paths, it had been several lifetimes since anyone had walked them consistently.

“We’re too much of a target if we take the Road,” Strider said shortly as he stepped onto a path only he could see. “Take the Road yourself if you like, but I will not risk it.”

“Suit yourself,” Holly grumbled under her breath, falling in behind the younger two hobbits.

* * *

Four days later, after being dragged backwards through what felt like every bush, tree, and shrub west of the Misty Mountains, Strider finally led them back to the road.

Holly managed to refrain from saying _I told you so_ , but only because she was too relieved to see the end of trekking in the wilderness. But from the irritation in his glance in her direction as they stepped out onto the path, he knew she was thinking it.

“We must make haste,” he said as they camped that night, tucked away just off the road. Underhill was sleeping restlessly, watched over by the hobbit the others called Sam, while the younger two, who reminded Holly a little bit of Fred and George towards the end of the war, quietly chewed on the rations they’d been given for dinner. “While Glorfindel cleared the crossing at the Hoarwell, I dare not trust that the Bruinen will not be held against us.”

“Glorfindel may have turned back and followed the Road,” Holly pointed out as she unstrung her bow, coiling the string and slipping it into her belt pouch. Examining the bow for any damage, she wrapped it in the oiled leather she used to store it in and set it aside, reaching for the knives she kept belted to her waist and checking those for any maintenance they needed. “He could be holding the ford for us as we speak.”

“If he was pursuing three riders as you say he was, he may not yet have turned back. That does work in our favor though, leaving us without those three to worry about.” Strider was checking his own weapons, inspecting his bow much as she had, but instead of checking the knife hanging on his belt, he drew his sword for the first time since she had joined the company.

To her surprise, the blade was only a foot long below the hilt, much less than the scabbard had suggested.

Strider caught her looking at it and grinned wryly. “Not much use is it?” he asked, checking the edge. “But the time has almost come for it to be forged anew.”

“You speak as if it has been broken for a long time,” she replied, putting her knives back in their sheaths. “Why would you carry a broken blade if you were to carry a sword at all?”

“This sword is an heirloom of my house, and I bear it with pride,” the man said, sheathing the blade again. “It was broken at the beginning of the age, though it was borne for many lifetimes before that.”

Something she had heard around the fires in the Ranger camps on more than one night came to mind, and she swore in each of the languages she had learned since her arrival in Middle Earth. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, looked amused by the curses in Sindarin, and some old Quenyan curses she’d picked up, but he looked mostly lost when she delved into the curses she had learned from the Trév Gállorg.

Once her outburst of profanity had ceased, she mastered herself enough to glare at the man sitting across the small campsite from her. “You’re Isildur’s bloody _heir_ , that’s who you are. No wonder Halbarad and Daervunn, not to mention _Glorfindel_ , kept laughing when I mentioned your name.”

He arched an eyebrow at her, and she belatedly realized that he was the leader of the _Dunedain_ , and her current leige lord, and therefore deserved significantly more respect from her than the amount of filth that had just slipped from her mouth.

It also meant that the slight appreciation she was developing for the way he managed to remain calm, collected, and in charge despite being tangled up in the wilderness of the Trollshaws with four hobbits, two horses, and her own prickly self was decidedly inappropriate. Kneeling, she bowed her head and waited for him to issue her punishment.

Thankfully, he didn’t seem inclined to take it out of her hide, instead finding it amusing if the soft chuckle was any indication. Warily lifting her head, she watched for his reaction as she asked: “Do I want to know what Halbarad wrote to confirm my trustworthiness?”

Strider, _Aragorn_ , had returned the letter to her, seal broken, but she hadn’t read it. Instead, she had stowed it in her pocket in case it was needed when she reached Rivendell, if she’d been separated from him.

“It was something about not harassing one of his best riders when they gave the proper passcodes,” the man said with a slight grin as he gestured for her to take her previous seat. “Among other things. Did you truly barge into his study and complain about me?”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Holly muttered, deciding that she’d taken enough for the day and it was time to get some sleep.

* * *

When she heard the bells again the next day as they walked along the road, Holly almost whooped for joy. The hobbits twitched warily, but Aragorn motioned them into the brush while he and Holly stood on the side of the road.

Choosing an arrow from her quiver, Holly nocked it to her bow, but didn’t draw yet. It _should_ be Glorfindel, but it was tricky to say what the servants of the Enemy would be able to replicate.

Thankfully, it was indeed Glorfindel who came riding around the bend. He spoke quietly with Aragorn for a few moments before turning to smile at Holly. “ _Mae govannen_ , Thuri. I see you have found the _Dunadan_ and his hobbit companions?”

“Perhaps it was he who found me?” she answered back shortly, still irritated that he had told her of Strider’s true identity, leaving her to put her foot into her mouth until the man himself showed her the shards of Narsil. “Or perhaps we found each other?”

“Peace Thuri, you need not fret! At least not about meetings past.” Glorfindel laughed, and it was like the pealing of a bright bell, but he sobered quickly enough. “There are five riders behind me that will pick up our trail quickly enough, and four I know not where they may be. And Frodo must get to Rivendell; the wound he bears is beyond my skill to heal. Come, Frodo, you will ride my horse. Sit as tight as you can, but fear not. He will not let fall any rider I command him to bear. And if danger sets upon us, he will bear you away to safety.”

“I won’t leave anyone behind,” Frodo said, as Glorfindel lifted him onto the taller horse and set about adjusting the stirrups for him. “Not while there’s danger.”

“It is you, Frodo, and that which you bear that brings us all in peril.” Glorfindel’s words seemed to silence the doubts the hobbit was willing to admit to, and they set off again shortly, once the two younger hobbits had been boosted up onto Pebbles and Nor, leaving only Sam, Aragorn, and Holly to lead the horses while Glorfindel led the company.

* * *

Glorfindel pushed them onwards at a tiring pace, but it was easier going than the wilderness had been, now that they were on the road. The three hobbits took turns riding and walking, helping them go as quickly as the walkers could move and switching when the hobbit slowed. Aragorn showed no obvious signs of tiring, though there was a weariness to his movements that Holly recognized, feeling it herself. Glorfindel had given them all a sip of what seemed to be the elvish version of an invigorating draught, which helped lessen the weariness, but Holly knew it would only be a stop gap that would do nothing to alleviate their weariness once it wore off.

* * *

Two days after they met Glorfindel on the road, the Ford was in sight.

The hobbits were all weary, and Holly wished they dared have one of the two younger hobbits ride pillion to the other, while Sam rode alone. That way they could be limited only by Holly and Aragorn, and she knew that they, with their background working with the Rangers, could be counted on to eke out more speed, even in their weariness, than the hobbits, who were used to softer lifestyles. But to overburden the horses, even Pebbles who was used to pulling a wagon, would only hobble them further.

Glorfindel had warned them that he expected to be set upon at the Ford; that the enemy was likely both before and behind them, so Holly was unsurprised when he called for them to fly.

Pausing for a moment, she turned to Merry, the hobbit walking with her as she led Nor, and lifted him up behind Pippen. “Ride for the river,” she said, weaving a featherlight charm around the two hobbits to make them easier to bear. “Make sure that Frodo gets across.”

Merry nodded, and she passed Pippen the reins before slapping Nor’s flank, spurring the horse forward. Glorfindel had set Frodo loose, and Aragorn had handed Pebbles to Sam, who was sticking close to Frodo’s side.

Tired as they were, the three horses sped towards the Ford, only to slow to a halt as riders appeared, four of them coming from the direction behind them. 

“ _Noro lim, noro lim Asfaloth!_ ” Glorfindel called, and Frodo rode forward once more, the other hobbits quickly left behind as the white horse charged towards the Ford.

“Do we shoot them or do we stab them?” she asked Aragorn in between breaths as they ran after the hobbits and horses.

“We run,” he said grimly, and she took the hint and followed on his heels.

Frodo had made it to the ford, she realized as she caught up with Nor and Pebbles, who would not go forward while the black riders stood between them and the Ford. Aragorn was holding onto Pebbles’s bridle as he sucked in breath. “We must have fire,” he panted, leading the horse off the road. “Sam, get one kindled. Merry, Pippin, get whatever materials you can for torches. Only fire and water will stop them, and if they attempt to cross the Ford the water will rise, leaving us stranded with any that survive it.”

Nodding, Holly lifted the two younger hobbits off Nor and left them scurrying among the brush as she made sure to tie both of her horses well off the road. By the time she had returned, Aragorn was cobbling together sturdy torches from long branches and strips of cloth he was tearing from his cloak.

“You three stay behind us and be ready to pass fresh torches if we should need them,” Aragorn was instructing as Merry and Pippen fed the fire, stoking it into an inferno. Holly accepted a torch as the waters roared, and Glorfindel reached for one as well.

There was an awful screaming from the river, and six dark forms rushed away from the banks. Desperately, Holly brandished her torch, falling in with Glorfindel and Aragorn as they pushed forward, forcing the riders into the roiling waters. In the back of her mind she hoped that Frodo had made it to higher ground before the waters rose, but then there was a dark form attempting to slip off to the side, to flee down the road, and she dropped her torch, kneeling blindly as she ripped her gloves off and dug her fingers deep into the loam and called on her magic in a way she hadn’t done in years.

Not much came easily to her after the loss of her wand just before her arrival, but she had learned to call the elements first, before she began the tedious work of adapting simple spells for wandless use. Fire sparked from her fingertips, spreading into sheets of flame that encircled the dark riders, herding them back towards the water. Fighting to keep the lines uniform, she fed the flames with magic and with the detritus of the woods, thick and deep after many years of being forgotten.

“ _Stop it_ ,” a voice hissed in her ear as hands clamped down on her shoulders. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it, before the whole forest goes up in flames.”

“Are the riders gone?” she gasped, hauling back a tendril of flame that threatened to lick up the length of a tree, desperate to escape her tight grip. “Are we safe?”

“Not if you set the whole forest ablaze.”

Setting her jaw, Holly withdrew her magic from the fire, bringing to bear where it still burned, fed by the leaf litter and other forest debris. Methodically, carefully, she snuffed each spark, feeling through the earth for the familiar hunger of fire until she felt nothing except the fire Sam was still tending.

She found that she had closed her eyes sometime in the process; opening them, she found herself wrist deep in still-warm ashes, a perfect semicircle of ash arcing from her towards the river bank. Merry and Pippen, standing with unlit torches in front of the small hollow where the horses were tied, looked frightened, and the hands clamped on her shoulders were almost painful.

“Frodo,” she rasped, then coughed and cleared her throat. “Did Frodo make it across?”  
  


“My kin from the House of Elrond will bring him safely to the healers’ hands,” Glorfindel said, moving to kneel in front of her and run his fingers through the ashes. “But I am more interested in the Ranger who can call fire to his hands.”

“A talent of my bloodline,” Holly whispered, shifting slightly before freezing as waves of dizziness crashed over her. The hands still gripping her shoulders were the only thing keeping her upright. “I need...I need... _Kreacher,_ ” she whispered.

The elf appeared in front of her, a frown on his face. “Mistress has overexerted herself,” he chided, taking in her appearance. “Kreacher told mistress that she ought not to play with fire, but nobody ever listens to Kreacher.”

“He’s a friend,” she whispered, feeling the hands on her shoulders tighten painfully, and Glorfindel’s hand go to his belt, presumably for a blade. “Kreacher, I need my tea.”

In less than a minute, the elf was back, handing her a small sachet. “Mistress ought to rest,” he grumbled as she took it and shoved it clumsily into her belt pouch. “Mistress knows this. Mistress ought not to be calling Kreacher over distance when she is exhausted.”

“I just need to get through the next hour,” she told him. “I do not know when I will be able to next call for you, but I will do so when I am recovered.”

Sniffing with disapproval, the elf disappeared. 

As she hovered on the verge of magical exhaustion, Kreacher’s apparation and disapparation pulling from painfully low reserves, Holly chanced glancing around, finding it was Aragorn who had a vise grip on her shoulders. Taking a deep breath, she tried to figure out where to begin.

“I don’t have a ton of time before I’m going to crash, so I’m going to give you the short story and you can get the long story when I wake up again,” she began, forcing herself to her feet, brushing off Aragorn’s grip on the way, and shuffling towards the hobbits. “There isn’t a word for what I am, at least not a good one. You can say I’m like one of the _Istari_ , but not the same. Halbarad knows, and it’s how I managed to ride messages so successfully. Kreacher is what my people called a _house elf_ , I don’t know why, but that’s what he believes himself to be so we haven’t tried to figure out what he would be called here. Neither of us mean any of you any harm.”

Feeling herself burn through the little that remained of her energy, she propped herself up against the tree that both of her horses were tethered to. “Are we going to be moving soon?” she asked, gesturing towards the ford.

“As soon as the waters go down,” Glorfindel answered, eyeing her curiously.

“Just tie me to one of the horses,” she said, waving vaguely. “Both of them have carried me before like this.” It was something she had trained both of them specially for, knowing that if she were caught by magical exhaustion, they might need to carry her to safety.

“Is there anything you need?” Aragorn asked warily from where he and Sam were covering the fire with dirt.

“Rest,” she said bluntly, letting herself slide down the tree into a sitting position. “And food, after. Nothing special.” She paused, and remembered the sachet. “Hot water, when I wake. Just enough to drink.”

Someone might have said something after that, but she let herself pass out, knowing that she was safe for the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mae govannen- Sindarin greeting, "well met"  
> Noro lim, noro lim Asfaloth!- run swift, run swift Asfaloth!
> 
> A few quotes directly from Tolkien, and I've pulled characters/landmarks from LOTRO to help flesh out the emptiness of the old northern kingdom. I own neither, obviously.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time was fast approaching when he would not be able to do so; but this one last time, with such a heavy burden as the hobbit had carried from the Shire to Imladris, he was perfectly willing to lay the matter at the feet of the White Council and whomever else Elrond chose to discuss the matter with.

“We really need to keep an eye on the Ministry,” Hermione said.

“What shit are they trying to shovel  _ now _ ?” Holly asked from where she was sprawled out on the sofa, a cold compress over her eyes. She  _ probably _ shouldn’t have tested that new warding until she wasn’t sleep deprived from jet lag, but she’d had a breakthrough on the return flight and wanted to test it out as soon as possible.

Kreacher would  _ probably _ forgive her for accidentally singing the contents of the ritual room again.

“They’re making noises about putting restrictions on you.”

Even though she knew her headache wouldn’t thank her for it, Holly lifted the compress from her eyes, started to move her head to look at her best friends, stopped, replaced the compress, moved, then pushed it further up to rest on her forehead. “What kind of restrictions?”

Hermione was absently rubbing the handle of her teacup, a clear sign she was agitated about something. “It’s just little things right now. They’re anxious that you’ve gotten so many masteries. That you’re travelling so much. And then there’s…” Unable to put it into words, she gestured towards where Holly was lying on the sofa.

“The fact that I haven’t physically aged a day since I was twenty-three? Twenty-four?” Holly snorted. “C’mon, Kingsley knows I’m not dabbling in dark magic.”

“Kings left office after the last election cycle,” Ron said from where he sat next to Hermione, and the two of them shared a look in the way they always did when she was being oblivious again. “Remember? He said he’s getting old, and it’s getting hard to watch the Wizengamot bicker all the time.” 

All three of them rolled their eyes at the (apparently) former minister’s reasoning. There was a reason why each of them had quit the Ministry in favor of private industry. Or lazing about on her personal fortune, in Holly’s case.

“So?” Holly said, shrugging as she lowered the compress over her eyes again. “Nobody else in the Ministry knows about the horcruxes. I’ve got a mastery in charms; maybe I’ve just stumbled onto some very good cosmetic and glamour charms?”

Ron snorted, but Hermione tsked disapprovingly. “And this is why they worry,” Holly heard her mumble under her breath. “You didn’t have that mastery until you went to Japan last year,” she chided. “That doesn’t explain how you’ve stayed looking like you’re in your early twenties or so when you’re in your forties.”

“I can look my age!” It took a twist of magic, and she’d need a mirror to verify it, but Holly was fairly certain she’d added wrinkles and fine lines to her face.

“Just because Teddy managed to teach you a little bit of his metamorphmagus talent…” Hermione said warningly, and Holly could hear the sigh in her voice. “You didn’t age in eleven years, and after we realized you weren’t aging, you…”

“Quit my job? Went on a prolonged bender?” Holly offered. “Let’s be honest though, it wasn’t  _ entirely _ about the aging thing. Most of it had to do with the Death Eaters that still own the Ministry.”

Ron laughed.

“Had a bit of a breakdown,” Hermione said delicately, completely ignoring the latter half of her words, likely because it would remind all of them of certain unfortunate facts of life and make all of them want to get drunk.

“Bender,” Holly repeated firmly. Deciding she’d rather have this conversation sitting up, she slid herself up until she was propped against the arm of the couch and then slid the compress off. “Kreacher?” she called.

The house elf appeared next to her, a disapproving frown on his face. “What can Kreacher do for mistress who tries to blow up the most Ancient and Noble House of Black?”

“Could I get a cup of tea please?” Holly asked, then grinned. “The blend I developed about ten years ago for headaches?”

“Mistress wants a cup of ‘shit my head hurts need to sober up’ tea?” the elf said warily, giving her the side-eye.

“That’s the one,” Holly chirped. “But, from now on, let’s call it the ‘Bender’ tea.”

Kreacher popped away, muttering about how his mistress was crazier than his previous master. It was an old complaint, and she didn’t begrudge the elf his chunnering.

Hermione looked disapprovingly at the teacup that popped into existence on the end table by Holly’s head. “I thought you didn’t need that any more?”

“What can I say?” Holly took a gulp of the tea, feeling her headache ease moments after she swallowed. “Best headache remedy I ever found, and it doesn’t look as bad as publically taking a Sober Up potion.”

“Can I get a tin of that?” Ron asked, glancing at his wife. 

“Ron!” Hermione growled, and Holly laughed as they devolved into one of their bickering spats that usually ended up in them making googly eyes at each other and traumatizing their children.

It was a good thing that they still had a permanently assigned bedroom in Grimmauld Place.

* * *

When she came too, it felt as if she’d been flattened by a troll.

“Kreacher,” she hissed, squeezing her eyes shut against the light that was making her headache worse. “I need a cup of the Bender tea.  _ Strong _ .” And then she remembered that the house elf wasn’t there, and that neither of them had the ease of just...magicking up a cup of tea anymore. At least she felt drained enough not to have unconsciously laced her call with magic, something she had to unlearn after their arrival, so instinctive the act was when you held a bond with a house elf.

Yet, not more than breath later, and there was a flask in her hand. Without a second thought, she took a sip of contents, pleased to find it was just warm water. Not as hot as she liked to brew the Bender tea in, but it would do. Blindly, she dug the sachet out of her belt pouch with clumsy fingers and stuffed it into the flask, giving up when she failed, and just drinking the water through the sachet of herbs. It wasn’t as helpful as a properly brewed cup of tea, but it would take the edge off.

When it did, she opened her eyes and found herself staring at Nor’s neck. There was a pressure against her stomach, reminiscent of a seatbelt, and something solid at her back. Craning her head around, she found herself looking up at Aragorn, who was looking down at her warily.

Looking down at her  _ hands _ , where she held the flask, the sachet tucked clumsily into the opening, she corrected as his eyes moved to her face. “What have I missed?” she asked, relieved to find her voice worked as she expected.

“It took half a day for the waters to go down, and by then it was nightfall. Not wanting to risk crossing at night, we waited until the morning and made the attempt then. We’ve just made it to the high moors and are riding towards the gate of Rivendell. We ought to be there by nightfall, if we keep the same pace.”

“Any word on Underhill?” she asked, shifting so she wasn’t leaning against Aragorn, instead supporting herself. Looking around, she saw Merry and Pippin on Pebbles in front of them, and that looked like Sam riding pillion on Glorfindel’s horse, the elf himself in front of him if the golden hair was any indication.

“You’ve been with us how many days and the hobbits haven’t managed to slip?” he asked with amusement in his voice.

“I know their  _ names _ ,” she muttered, winding her fingers in Nor’s mane. “Or is  _ Underhill _ a pseudonym?”

“It was Gandalf’s idea,” the  _ Dunadan  _ chuckled. “To deflect suspicion in Bree.”

“Well, they can keep a secret,” she said, and then she looked ahead of them as she heard the sound of horses coming towards them.

Glorfindel came to a stop, and the younger hobbits pulled up Pebbles, who was already slowing to a stop when he saw Glorfindel’s horse halt. Aragorn moved Nor up to stand to the right of the elf’s horse as they all peered at the approaching riders.

“Ah, the twins,” Glorfindel said after a moment, humming cheerfully as the riders drew closer. “And they’ve brought extra mounts.”

“ _Mae_ _govannen_ , Glorfindel, Estel!” One of the lead riders called, slowing their company to a walk. “We had thought you’d still be climbing up to the moors, but I see you have another horse that we hadn’t accounted for. And another _dunedain_.”

“ _ Mae govannen _ Elrohir.” Glorfindel said. “What news from your father’s house?”

“The hobbit and the burden he carries were borne to our father’s house with haste, and even now he plies all of his skill against the Morgul wound. Gandalf mentioned that the rest of you would be following, but there is both a man and a horse that he did not know about. Have you picked up another stray in the wilderness Estel?”

It took a moment for the translation to process, and Holly shoved her fist into her mouth to muffle the irritated noise that wanted to escape. Of  _ course _ all of the passcodes used between Ranger camps were elaborate plays on words about Aragorn. Why  _ shouldn’t _ they be?

“Thuri found us at the Last Bridge,” Aragorn said, dismounting, after she gave him a slight shove to prove she was  _ fine _ , and walking towards the elf, who had also dismounted, along with another so similar he had to have been a twin. “And I am glad to hear of Gandalf’s arrival, for I have many questions of him.”

“Then you must make haste,” the second elf said, motioning three of the riders leading horses forward. “We brought extra mounts to speed your travels. Our father has sent us to ensure that no servants of the enemy yet lurk in the old ruins, but there is one yet in the valley who will be glad of your coming.”

Glorfindel chuckled as the horses were led forward. “Ah, I had forgotten to mention that,” he murmured as Aragorn took the reins of one of the horses, which seemed to recognize him. “Come Master Meriadoc, come Master Samwise! There are ponies here that suit you better than bouncing as a bundle behind others.”

It only took a moment to get the two hobbits resettled on the fresh mounts, and the bundles redistributed between all six horses. Saying farewell, the company of elves rode off to the south, the line of riders snaking down along the trail Holly now noticed as she looked behind them.

“Well then,” Glorfindel said, once again astride his white horse. “Shall we be off? We might go a bit faster, if you hobbits agree with the pace. There’s a good flat stretch ahead before the gates which will be easy going.”

As they set off, Holly rested her hand on Nor’s neck, checking her horse’s wellbeing with just a trickle of magic. To her surprise, the horse seemed to have recovered plenty from the long trek through the wilderness and the flight to the Ford, and was certainly well enough for a brief run.

Feeling mischievous, she drew up alongside Aragorn, who was riding on the outside flank, falling back towards where she brought up the rear, likely to keep an eye on the hobbits riding between her and Glorfindel. “Do you feel up to racing the rider who set the fastest time on a run from Esteldin to Tinnudir?” Up ahead, she could see a long, mostly flat plain, bounded by trees a short run away. She itched to let loose and run, and from the way he shifted under her, Nor was equally eager.

He glanced over at her with a raised eyebrow. “I doubt you’re up to it,” he said mildly. “You were unconscious up until a few minutes ago.”

“There’s a reason I was Halbarad’s most reliable rider,” she retorted, and then fiddled with her stirrups, shortening them by a few notches. Aragorn had turned to look at the hobbits, and missed the movement, but as he turned back to look at her, she flattened herself against Nor’s neck and they shot forward, like an arrow from a bow.

She heard a startled exclamation, but as she turned slightly to look back, he had fallen for her taunt, so she faced forward and focused on the band of trees and hills in the distance. Nor’s long strides were eating up the ground quickly in a way they hadn’t been able to run in many months. Hooves behind her suggested that Aragorn was gaining, and she knew that Nor wouldn’t be able to outrun a fresh horse, but soon enough the trees were close enough for her to see the trail emerging between them and she sat back and slowed to a trot.

“Perhaps we will return to the north and we will ride in a fair challenge,” Aragorn said as he pulled up beside her.

Slowing to a walk, and then a halt, she looked back to see that Glorfindel had led the hobbits into a trot, the quartet of horses covering the ground between them at a reasonable pace. “I’ll look forward to it,” she replied absently to Aragorn, resting her hand on Nor’s neck. “I had forgotten how much I missed riding messages.”

“You rode for several years, correct?” Aragorn asked, halting his own horse with her. “Mostly the route between Esteldin and Tinnudir?”

“I could ride it the fastest and most reliably, so Halbarad had me riding that route most often. But I occasionally rode down to Saeradin, and once or twice up to Aughaire.” Nobody wanted to risk her much in the lands controlled by Angmar, not after the way she’d left Donnvail, but there were times where she was the only rider able to carry a message north.

“That looked like a merry run,” Glorfindel laughed as he approached, driving her mind away from the darker thoughts that started to cloud her mind. “Shall we move forward?”

Pulling Nor aside, she let the elf and the three hobbits that followed him go by before falling in at the rear, Aragorn half a stride in front of her. Around them, the trees reached up to the sky, forming a natural archway overhead as the trail curved through the hills and started to slope slightly upwards.

“Welcome, my friends, to Imladris,” Glorfindel declared, halting at what seemed to be the top of the rise.

Coming up alongside the hobbits, Holly gazed down at the valley hidden deeply in the cleft of the mountains, a river twining through it, falling from the mountains to the east and sloping gently downwards as it ran west. Stone structures were littered throughout the valley, placed so they seemed to have grown in harmony with or sprung from the earth like the surrounding greenery, instead of having been placed over centuries.

“We had best walk the path down,” Aragorn suggested, glancing at the hobbits. “It can be steep, for inexperienced riders and tired horses alike.”

With a heave, Holly launched herself out of the saddle, boots thudding gently against the ground. Nor nudged her lightly with his nose, and she ran her hand along his neck and gathered up the reins. The hobbits slithered down to the ground, all of them looking at least a little relieved to be back on solid ground. Sam was fidgeting impatiently, but Glorfindel led them down the slope as soon as they were all situated properly.

* * *

Aragorn couldn’t help the rush of relief that swamped him as he trudged down the slope towards the Last Homely House. Even though it had been many years since he had last been a child, he suspected that some part of him would always feel better when there was the chance to go to Elrond for advice, to let someone else take on the weight of the world even if only for a few moments.

The time was fast approaching when he would not be able to do so; but this one last time, with such a heavy burden as the hobbit had carried from the Shire to Imladris, he was perfectly willing to lay the matter at the feet of the White Council and whomever else Elrond chose to discuss the matter with.

Ahead of him, the hobbits were conversing among themselves in awed whispers, with Glorfindel ahead of them, humming merrily as he led the band down into the valley proper. And behind him…

He paused, looking back at the woman who he knew only as  _ Thuri _ , and wondered what she would do now that they had reached the valley, why she had been so insistent on following them, why she hadn’t spoken of anything not related to their immediate circumstances during their days in the wilderness. She had slowed down and seemed to be taking in the valley, much as any of the  _ dunedain _ that had ever ridden with him to the Last Homely House did. After the desolation that had been wrought as the Northern Kingdom splintered and fell, to see such a vibrant, thriving community nestled in the valley was almost too much to believe.

Aragorn had the opposite problem. Raised in Imladris, when he finally left, it was a shock, seeing the emptiness of the north kingdom, the ruined stones that were often all that was left of once proud cities. He had walked the shores of Nenuial and joined his people in driving back the robbers that dared desecrate the tombs of his forefathers. With his brethren, he had paced the bounds of the Shire, keeping fell things out of those peaceful lands, wishing selfishly that those lands still fed and sheltered his people as they had once.

A scuffed foot drew his attention back to Thuri, who had walked as soundlessly as he had even amidst the brush of the Trollshaws. Narrowing his eyes, he watched as she swayed slightly, the reins slipping from her hand as she slowly knelt, changing to practically attempting to flatten herself against the ground as she got closer, burying her face in the leaves that were beginning to fall. Concerned, remembering how she had been limp as he had boosted her into the saddle that morning, he turned back and hurried up the slope to reach her.

To his surprise, she was still conscious, pulling at her gloves and her clothes as she seemed to attempt to meld herself with the ground.

“Hey now,” he murmured carefully as he reached to lift her up into a sitting position. “What’s going on?”

Moving slowly, she tipped her face up towards him, her hood falling back just enough so he could see her eyes. The whites were reddened, the pupils dilated, and she seemed to have trouble tracking his movements.

“So good,” she mumbled, trying to slide back onto the ground despite his grasp. “ _ So good _ .”

A rustle made him look up, and the scrawny creature that Thuri had called to her after they had faced the Nazgul at the Ford was standing next to them, wringing its thin hands. To his surprise, the creature’s pupils were also blown, and it seemed moments away from attempting to flatten itself on the ground as Thuri had tried. 

“Do you know what’s wrong with her?” he snapped. They were in Imladris, and there were healers who could help, but it would be better to know what they ought to treat.

“Mistress  _ feels _ it again,” the creature croaked, and Aragorn would have sworn he heard a trace of awe in its voice. “We thought we’d never feel it again, not like this.

“What do you feel?”

As if sensing the irritation in his voice, the creature stopped wringing its fingers and stared at him with large blue eyes. “ _ Magic _ ,” it whispered.

_ Magic _ ? Aragorn knew that the craftsmen of old had worked great things, things that could not be replicated no matter how they tried. The elf smiths of Eregion had created objects of incredible power, ones that could possibly be called magic, but the only people he knew that could actually  _ use _ magic were the five wizards.

“We haven’t felt this in so long,” the creature croaked hoarsely, ignoring Aragorn’s thoughts. “And when we felt it, it was wrong. Oh yes, nasty shamans in Donnvail and their wrong magic. Made Mistress sick until she made them, yes it did.”

“Made what?”  _ Donnvail? They’d given that up as lost two generations back, well before he was born _ . Aragorn wrapped his arm around her torso, keeping her upright as she tried to wriggle back to the ground, mumbling incoherently. “What did she make to stop from feeling sick?”

With a snap, the creature was holding several thick bands of leather. “Dampers Mistress called them,” it said, turning them over in its fingers. “Makes Mistress feel better, they will.”

“Give them here,” Aragorn snapped, reaching out for the bits of leather. “How do they go on?”

Eying him suspiciously, the creature seemed to contemplate withholding the leather strips, but eventually handed them over, if grudgingly. “Kreacher can’t use magic on Mistress,” it muttered as Aragorn took the strips and examined them, sounding slightly woebegotten. “Kreacher might hurt mistress, putting them on her.  _ Dunadan _ must do so.”

“How do they go on?”

Pointing to one of the straps, the creature pointed to Thuri’s wrist. “Wrap it tight, Mistress did. With the rune against Mistress’ skin.”

Running his fingers over the indicated strap of leather, Aragorn found a strange symbol stitched into the material and positioned it directly against Thuri’s pulse point on her wrist, pushing up her sleeve and pulling down her glove to get at the skin before wrapping the strip as tight as he could without restricting circulation and moved on to the next strap the creature indicated.

That strap went around Thuri’s other wrist, and she already seemed less restless. By the time he had the last piece of leather secured around her throat, Thuri seemed significantly more lucid, sitting up on her own willpower and seemingly glancing around.

“Huh,” she murmured softly, reaching out to touch the ground again. Looking up, she must have spotted her servant. “Kreacher, do you feel it too?”

“Mistress felt it too much,” the creature responded, almost scolding her. “Mistress needs to be more aware of her surroundings.”

Her hands shifted, tracing first one bit of leather, then the other, then her right hand lifted to her neck to trace the band he had wrapped there. Momentarily she froze, then she turned her head so that she was looking at him.

“Thank you, for placing these,” she said politely, pulling back from him.

He let her go, mostly certain that she’d be able to hold herself upright. “What happened?”

“I could feel...the valley. It has a feeling unlike any other if you’re sensitive as I am. As Kreacher is. There are so few places like that these days that I hadn’t thought to have the dampers on hand, and it appears I’m not fully functioning, to not have sensed the signs.” Rising, she reached out for the reins of her horse, who had lingered nearby. “We should catch up with the others. Kreacher, do you need to stay, or can you make it home safely?”

* * *

“ _ Mae govannen _ ,” one of the elves standing with Glorfindel said as they joined the hobbits. “Welcome back Estel. My lord Elrond wishes me to pass along his greetings to all of you; he is busy tending your companion and could not be here. We have prepared rooms for each of you so that you may rest until the council has met to discuss the growing dangers.”

Glorfindel shepherded the hobbits away, having them retrieve their packs and turn over the horses they had been given to another elf who had been waiting on the side of the nexus point where they had been met. His own mount trailed placidly behind the pair as they were led away. Holly reached out to grab Pebbles’ reins from Pippen, wanting to unsaddle him herself and look him over to make sure there was no harm done from his journey through the wilderness. Another elf had stepped forward to take Nor, as well as Pebbles, but she held onto their reins and smiled politely. “Thank you, but I would prefer to stable them myself after they’ve carried us all this way under thankless conditions.”

“Of course,” the elf who had greeted them said with a deep dip of his head. “It is not often that the Rangers ride so far east as Imladris; it has been a long journey for you.”

Deciding not to get into the logistics of her joining Aragorn’s company at the moment, Holly simply returned the courtesy with a deep dip of her head. “Would it be possible for you to show me to the stables?” she asked the elf who had moved forward to take her horses. “I would like to settle them quickly so that they may join me in experiencing the fabled hospitality of the Last Homely House.”

“Of course,” the elf said with a brief dip of his head. “Please, come with me.”

Aragorn trailed after her, deep in conversation with the elf that had greeted her. They had dropped into Sindarin, and she felt no shame in not telling them that she was passably fluent in Sindarin as the occasional word floated up to her over the soft creaking of saddles and other bits of leather. Thankfully, he hadn’t mentioned Kreacher, which meant she was spared an interrogation and having to explain all the nuances of her relationship with the house elf.

“I saw the horses that a company led by Lord Elrond’s sons rode,” she began, deciding to make small talk while she still had the energy for it. “If all horses are so well cared for as they, I have absolute confidence in the stables of Imladris.”

“We take great care that our mounts are well-treated, and even greater care with those that visit us,” her guide replied politely. “It is our honor that those who come to share our tables find themselves in better health than they came to us, and it would be in poor taste for us not to extend that to their mounts.”

“Even in the north, the hospitality of those that dwell in Imladris is renowned,” Holly replied, thinking of the stories she had heard around the campfire in the  _ dunedain _ camps at night. “My fellows will be jealous when they hear of my visit.”

“It is rare that my lord Estel brings his brethren south indeed,” the elf replied, face smooth and unbothered as they went by a lively marketplace. “And I cannot recall a time where he had arrived accompanied by a Ranger.”

“Is it the height that gave me away?” When no reply came, Holly rolled her eyes. “I had been posted in Bree to help keep watch there when I came across Aragorn and the hobbits he was offering to escort. I’m afraid I gave him very little choice in the matter.”

They had reached the stables, and Holly looped Nor’s rein around the tether her guide indicated and then tied Pebbles. Carefully, she untacked him, checking every bit of leather for wear or damage, but thankfully the magic she had worked into them had kept his tack whole. Once she had checked his gear, she ran her hands down his legs and checked his hooves, making sure that the uneven ground hadn’t done any damage. He had been walking fine, but she didn’t want to take the chance. Satisfied that he was still sound, she pulled one of the stiff brushes from her pack and ran it over him in broad strokes, tidying up his coat, before she allowed one of the stable hands to turn him out into the large pasture she could see.

Nor was in equally good shape. Having slung each set of tack on the pegs outside the stalls she had been shown to, Holly took her saddlebags and turned towards the entrance to the stables where Aragorn was talking with the elf that had guided her to the stables, his previous companion nowhere in sight.

“There is no need for secrecy in the hidden valley,” Aragorn said as she approached, his own pack hanging from one shoulder.

Briefly, she frowned, and then she realized that her hood was still up, as it had been since she left her farm north of Bree, shielding most of her face. Tugging it down, she enjoyed the brief flicker of surprise on their guide’s face before it smoothed out. “Please, let me guide you back to the House of Elrond, where a room has been prepared for you,” he said, gesturing back in the direction they had come from.

“I don’t need much,” Holly hurried to assure him. “I’m just a message rider turned farmer. Not any sort of captain or commander.” While the Rangers rarely stood on ceremony or hierarchy, they also rarely had any blooded nobility among them. Halbarad’s position as Aragorn’s second was as much due to their kinship as it was their 

“All guests are welcomed equally in the Last Homely House,” he declared, sounding almost offended as he lead them down the path. “We have been told that our guest quarters are not only spacious, but comfortable. It would be an insult if we were not prepared to meet the needs of our visitors.”

“Perhaps Glorfindel will find an evening to sit with me in the Hall of Fire and tell me what tales he would share,” she mused as they walked, remembering his promise at the last Bridge over the Hoarwell.

“There are always tales to be told in the Hall of Fire,” Aragorn told her. “And so many songs that one might go a lifetime without hearing the same verse twice if that was the rule.”

“Your brethren in the north are not much different,” she reminded him, remembering long nights at Tinnudir as the Rangers told tales and sang songs of the days when the kings had dwelt in Annuminas, and later Fornost. “Perhaps it is just that when many of the free peoples are gathered, they will naturally begin telling tales and singing songs of glories long past.”

They were approaching the largest dwelling in the valley, and Holly felt the brush of his cloak as Aragorn moved past her, striding fluidly up the steps towards a grey-cloaked figure. “Gandalf,” he said, and she could hear the note of relief in his voice. “So you have made it at last.”

“I was but a day behind you in leaving the  _ Pony _ ,” the old man was saying as Holly approached with her guide. Distracted from Aragorn, he peered at her. “I did not know any of your brethren had ridden south to join you.”

“Thuri is one of the message riders who was once stationed in Esteldin,” Aragorn said, gesturing for her to come forward. “We met in Bree, and Thuri insisted on coming with the hobbits and I.”

“Is that so?” the wizard murmured, and Holly fought the instinctive urge to slam up her shielding as his eyes fell upon her. Were it not for the difference in eye color, lack of distinctive twinkle, and choice of grey robes, she might have mistaken him for Dumbledore, at least at a distance.

Ever since she had seen Snape’s memories, she had struggled to reconcile what he had done with regards to her and her part in the war. Even now, decades after the fact, she couldn’t decide whether or not he had been justified in many of his decisions. Unfortunately, his portrait couldn’t answer her questions, and she hadn’t been willing to try to see what it would say. Yet she still felt wary about this wizard, who looked at her as if he could see through her.

Too many people had looked at her like that and seen only what she could offer their cause. Holly was tired of playing someone else’s game, and much preferred the relative freedom Halbarad had allowed her. While she had sworn herself into Aragorn’s service, with his mother standing as his proxy, Halbarad had decided that the best use of her talents was to set her a task with as few orders as necessary. What orders he gave her were usually sensible and didn’t put her at more risk than she was willing to stomach.

“So you are Gandalf?” she said after the moment of silence between the three of them had gone on too long. “Halbarad speaks very highly of you. He had thought to send word to you some years ago, but I asked him not to.”

“Oh really?” the wizard murmured. “Why is that?”

Pausing, Holly took a brief measure of her internal reserves and found them brimming, fuller than they had been in years despite her exhaustion the day before. Holding out her hand, she let sparks flutter around her fingers, little bits of fire that made the old man’s eyebrows raise.

“Good gracious me,” he said as she lowered her hand. “I would very much like to speak with you, Thuri of Esteldin. But I think I can wait until you have had a wash and a rest. Both of you, I believe, have had quite a journey to get here.”

* * *

As the door closed behind the elf that had greeted them upon their arrival, who had introduced himself as Lindir, steward of Lord Elrond’s household, Holly glanced around the guest quarters she had been given.

The room was spacious, light and airy, as her guide to the stables had mentioned they would be. There was a large bed, with gauzy curtains, in one corner; opposite it, a comfortable looking couch sat under a window, shutters and curtains open to let in the cool fall air and the sound of running water, likely from one of the many streams that ran through the valley. On the walls were beautifully woven tapestries depicting nature scenes that she couldn’t particularly recognize.

It was far too grand for someone who wasn’t any sort of noble or commander, but Holly found that she was too tired of sleeping in bushes to give a damn at the moment. Perhaps in a day or two she’d petition to be moved to wherever the barracks were in the valley, but for the moment, she wanted a bath and she wanted to sleep in a bed.

Setting her saddlebags down on the padded bench at the foot of the bed, she rummaged through them to find clean clothing. For a moment, she pulled out the dress she had packed just in case, but set it aside in favor of finding clean sets of her sturdy leggings, tunic, and jerkin she tended to wear when she was riding. Lindir had mentioned that there was a bathing chamber attached to her room, and she was about to go through the curtained archway to see if that was it when there was a rap on her door.

Opening it, she found a female elf with a bundle of fabric in her hands. “Greetings, Thuri of Esteldin, I am Linnriel, and I have come to see if there is anything you need.”

“I was wondering if there was a place for me to wash my clothing?” Holly asked politely, gesturing to the travel-stained garments she was still wearing. She had hung her cloak on the peg by the door, so the grime on the rest of her garments was easily visible. Kreacher could possibly clean her things, and bring more clothing, if she wished, based on the magic she could feel thrumming in the valley even with her dampeners on, but for the moment she wanted to conform to the expectations the others would have of her.

“Certainly,” Linnriel said promptly. “Lindir asked for someone to be assigned to see to your needs. Please, consider me at your disposal.”

“Oh, you don’t need to wait on me, I’m not anyone important.” 

“According to Lindir, Lord Estel mentioned you’d had a spell yesterday, and a further one on your arrival,” the elf maid said, a determined look in her eyes. “It is no trouble at all to assist you in whatever you may need. We of Imladris hold the Rangers in high regard, and wish to offer our appreciation for the work you do in the north. The very least we can do is offer you our greatest hospitality.”

“Very well then,” Holly sighed. “Is there a dress code for meals, or might I take them in the kitchens as I prefer?” She hoped there wasn’t, since her wardrobe was incredibly limited, but she knew that next to the elf’s beautiful dress her own ‘best’ dress would look like rags, and it was still languishing in her wardrobe on the farm. It was far easier to focus on that, ignoring the fact that Aragorn had been telling tales about her health.

“Since you have just arrived, you might take dinner in your room if you wish,” the elf said as Holly allowed her further into the room. “But Lindir asked that you and our other guests are outfitted well for the feast in several days, so you have no need to fret. That is my other purpose here, to take your measurements so that a dress might be made ready for you.” Pausing, she backtracked politely: “Or perhaps a tunic and trousers?”

“A dress will be fine,” Holly said, pulling her jerkin off and setting it next to her saddlebags. She had hoped, even with the elf’s presence and the design of the room, that she would not be called upon to interact much with the nobility of the valley, but if she was being outfitted for a feast, it appeared that she wasn’t going to get her wish. “Would you like to take my measurements now, or after I have bathed?”

“After will be fine,” Linnriel agreed, setting her bundle of fabric on a small table against the wall. “Would you like any assistance in the bath? I have been told that I am very good with washing hair.”

Holly was tempted to accept; one glance into the bathroom decided her. “If it is not too much inconvenience,” she answered, eyeing the steaming pool with joy. It had been so long since she’d managed to get a bath that wasn’t in a small washtub or cold stream; even longer since she’d managed to properly wash her hair. And the presence of another would allow her to risk taking her dampers off without risking drowning.

“It is no inconvenience at all!” the elf woman said, untangling a filmy white garment from her bundle of fabric. “I brought a shift for you to bathe in, if you are concerned with privacy.”

“Since I am often the only woman in a party of men, I have become rather desensitized to necessary nudity,” Holly deadpanned as she refused the shift. “However, I have picked up several scars over the years that I have found are distressing to others, so I am willing to wear it to prevent your distress.”

Linnriel let her be as she changed out of her travel-stained clothing and into the light shift, draping her clothing on the back of the tall chair in the corner of the room. There was a low bench with a stack of towels sitting next to the sunken pool, and a pitcher and basin on a stand under a well-polished mirror. There was a sunny alcove with another bench, this one wider and padded, off to one side, but for the moment, Holly moved to the pitcher and basin.

Finding the pitcher empty, she filled it from a cleverly designed tap on the wall before returning to the basin and wetting a small towel. Carefully, she cleaned the travel grime from her face and neck, carefully avoiding the leather band that Aragorn had wrapped around her neck to help dampen the feel of the ambient magic in the valley. She would wash there later, once she had taken it off, but for the moment she focused on her face, her hands, and her feet and ankles, all of which lightened steadily as the water darkened.

Already feeling cleaner, Holly moved towards the pool, testing the water temperature with her foot. It was comfortably warm, and she sighed in pleasure as she perched on the side of the pool, taking her time and savoring the feeling of the warm water.

“I see you, like many others who have found their way to our halls, have discovered the joy of our thermal springs.”

Linnriel had put a plain robe over her dress, and her long sleeves had been pinned back above her elbows, leaving her forearms bare. Placing a towel at the edge of the water, she knelt down with a smile.

“They are wonderful,” Holly agreed, reaching for the leather wrapped around her wrist. “Do all of your rooms contain such luxury?”

“We tend to use communal baths,” Linnriel murmured, arranging several jars and what looked to be blocks of soap with herbs in them, as well as a wide-toothed comb, within easy reach of the both of them. “But we understand our guests may not be comfortable with that arrangement, so all of our guest rooms have adjoining bathing chambers.”

“I do not think I can fully explain, but I need to ask a favor of you,” Holly began, loosening the tie on the leather. “In my various journeys, I have discovered myself to be...sensitive to what the layman might call  _ magic _ . When I had my... _ spell _ , earlier it was because I was being overloaded by the sensation of entering the valley. With time, I will become adjusted, but until then I wear these,” she indicated the leather bands at her wrists and neck, “to help dampen the effects.”

“Is there anything I can do to assist with your adjustment?” Holly could tell that the elf was confused, but her helpful and friendly demeanour remained unchanged.

“I’m going to take these off as I bathe, and all you need to do is keep me from drowning myself.” Holly undid the first leather strap and took careful breaths as she felt a wave of magic wash over her, just as comforting as the warm water washing over her as she slipped her feet in the water. Once she felt reasonably settled, she took off the other one, handing both of them to Linnriel for safekeeping as she breathed through the second wave of magic. It was a pleasant buzz, like she had once sought after when she chased it down a bottle, but she managed it better, not allowing it to overtake her as she breathed through the onslaught. The elf would stop her if she did something that would harm herself or others, so Holly felt comfortable removing the dampeners.

Besides, she knew what to expect now.

When she had stabilized herself after removing the band around her neck, Holly slid fully into the water, allowing herself to submerge up to her neck. Her hair was still pinned up, with the help of some improvised sticking charms, and she was more than happy to let Linnriel deal with that mess when the time came.

The shift swirled around her in the water as she perched on the low bench built into the pool, obscuring most of her body, but not clinging impossibly. Linnriel handed her a bar of soap as she reached for one, and Holly set to work scrubbing herself clean under the shift while the elf started to untangle her hair. It took a minute for her to remember, but she dispelled the sticking charms as the pins were being pulled out so that her hair tumbled down around her in a curtain of riotous black-brown curls, much like those found in those with  _ dunedain _ heritage.

When she finally crawled out of the bath, her body was pink with warmth and cleanliness and her fingers and toes were pruny. As she sat on the padded bench, wrapped in the fluffiest towels she had ever found in Middle Earth, putting her dampeners back on, Linnriel gently combed out her hair, applying some sort of sweet smelling balm until it fell gently almost down to her waist in a smooth ripple.

After Holly had rubbed a light lotion into her skin, Linnriel handed her a plain, opaque white shift, a much fancier version of the one Holly usually wore under her dresses on her farm. “Slide into this and then come out into the main room,” the elf ordered, gathering up the towels and placing them into a basket by the door. “We’ll get your measurements and by then there should be a light tray brought up so you can eat something before you rest.”

Her head feeling clear again, with all of her dampeners in place as a precaution, Holly did as she was ordered and rejoined the elf in the front room and subjected herself to measurements and pinning before Linnriel grinned and handed her a long, silky white nightgown. “I think you will appreciate this,” she said as she offered it to Holly. “It is much more comfortable than the ones our visitors speak of finding elsewhere in the world.”

“It feels positively divine,” Holly agreed, and as she slipped into the nightgown, the elf ducked out into the hall and returned with a tray bearing a light repast.

“Now, rest and eat. Would you like me to come wake you for the evening meal, so you can decide whether or not you wish to attend or not?”

Agreeing, Holly sat at the table and started on the tray as the elf gathered up her supplies, as well as the basket of dirty laundry before leaving. Once she was done, Holly left the tray outside her door and crawled into the large, comfortable bed and let herself drift off to sleep.

* * *

As promised, Linnriel woke her in the evening and stayed just long enough to see her seated at the table with the tray she had brought. Holly managed to clear it, before crawling back into bed and sleeping until the pale light of the pre-dawn morning was beginning to creep through her windows.

Awake, and feeling better magically than she had in many years, Holly removed the dampener on her neck, allowing herself to feel more of the magic as she washed and slid into her usual Ranger outfit. Musing for a moment about her hair, she decided to braid it back and pin it up. Out of the way, but not necessarily as impossible to dislodge as she would usually demand from it if she was riding. Waking up with it loose was a luxury she hadn’t indulged in since...her fingers stumbled slightly in her braiding, but she recentered herself and continued. It had been before she left Aughaire, and the Trév Gállorg. Nearly twenty years.

Making sure that her belt and boot knives were in place, she slipped out of her room and wandered down the long hallway. She passed nobody as she went, which was unsurprising given the hour. But she found a pleasant courtyard, and in it, the cloaked wizard from the day before.

“Gandalf,” she murmured as she approached, taking care to scuff her boots against the stones. “I hope I will not disturb you by sharing this garden with you?”

“Not at all,” the wizard said, blowing a smoke ring. “This garden is meant for all guests of the House of Elrond, a place to soothe travel-weary souls.”

“It is quite lovely,” Holly agreed as she trailed her fingers across the hydrangeas that arched over her chosen bench. “I have not seen gardens this beautiful in many years. Not even what is left of Lin Giliath shows such beauty.”

“It has been many years since I was last in the north,” Gandalf said as she settled on the bench and breathed in the clean air, scented lightly by the plants surrounding the courtyard. “And unfortunately I had not the time to stop for pleasure. But dearest to me, I believe, may be the gardens of the Shire; untouched as they are by the cares and tribulations of the rest of us in the world. Perhaps that is what makes them all the more beautiful.”

He drew on his pipe and released another smoke ring. “But as pleasant as the morning is, and as beautiful as the gardens of Imladris are, I think we have other things to discuss, you and I, Thuri of Esteldin.”

“I came from a...a different world,” she said, taking his comment for the prompting it was, deciding that she might as well lay all her cards on the table at once. “A world where there was an entire population of humans capable of using magic, as well as several races of sentient magical creatures, multiple varieties of magical plants and animals, and magic flowed freely between the land and the people. Some time ago, I woke outside what I know now to be Aughaire, a village north of Esteldin, and the Trév Gállorg took me in as one of their own. When I could no longer stay with them, I went south to Esteldin, and made myself useful to the Ranger encampment there. After I had grown too noteworthy to continue riding my usual routes, I was sent south, to help watch over Bree.”

“Good gracious me,” Gandalf murmured, pausing to tamp down whatever was in his pipe. “That is quite the tale. I see you have no staff?”

His own was resting against the bench he had chosen, and Holly shook her head. “We used wands, most no longer than my forearm. Mine was...lost when I arrived.” It had been painful, to wake and find that there was nothing left of the holly and phoenix wand that had seen her through all but the worst of that awful year when she and Hermione and Ron had been running from just about everyone in Britain. She had taken great pains to ensure its safety, and to wake up, exponentially distant from everything she’d known, without it, had almost broken her.

“But you can control magic without it?” he probed gently.

“Some,” she said, extending her hand and focusing. “I can call each of the four elements.” Fire sparked at her fingertips, then water coalesced into a sphere above her hand before forming into a ball of earth, which disintegrated and was blown away on a gentle breeze. “I’ve taught myself how to work magic into things I make, and to lay runes, which my people used as a written language of power, into materials. There are a few things I’ve taught myself to do without my wand, like making things light, or holding them in place, or cushioning things, but it has been...difficult. I’ve spent most of my effort learning better ways to help my fellow Rangers.”

Wryly, she let her hand fall back into her lap. “Before I arrived, I did not know how to ride a horse, or shoot a bow, or fight with a blade. Even my day to day tasks are vastly different when I’m tending to my small farm. But magic here is...not the same as magic in my home. There, it seems limitless, bound only by the caster’s strength of will and their skill. Here, if I use too much, I lose consciousness. And I have to wait until it regenerates to use it. It’s...finite.”

“That is...not unlike what I experience,” the old wizard agreed, glancing at his staff. “The small things, like light, are unnoticeable, but the large things, what people remember, that takes effort. But I do not try to do much without my staff.”

He puffed away on his pipe, sending smoke rings through each other. “Do you have any talent in healing, Thuri of Esteldin?”

“Has Underhill not recovered?” The wizard glanced at her, startled, and then he chuckled.

“Ah, I see at least one part of my scheming did not go to waste. Underhill is an assumed name, meant to prevent notice on the road to Bree. His true name is Frodo Baggins. And his wound is proving difficult, even to the skills of Lord Elrond.”

“I was never good with healing,” she grimaced, resisting the urge to rub at the scars on her chest where Slytherin’s locket had been ripped away. “But he’s why I came to Imladris.”

At the wizard’s inquiring glance, she continued, parsing her words so that she could convey the facts of what she suspected, without airing her personal connection.

She trusted him, but only to an extent.

“When I was a child, there was a wizard who had gone...wrong. He had split his soul, placing it into a number of containers. To kill him, one had to destroy each of the containers, the soul anchors. I am not burdened with what my people call the  _ Sight _ , but occasionally I feel a prompting towards one direction or the other, which is how I came to be in Bree the night the hobbits arrived.” She hesitated, and moved forward in her story. “I do not know what Underhill- Baggins- carries, but I believe it to be a soul container, and when I spoke of it to Halbarad in Esteldin, he agreed that it might be a possibility.”

“Do you know how such things were destroyed?” Gandalf’s tone betrayed a sudden hope, and Holly found herself frowning, knowing she would have to disappoint him.

“The containers had to be rendered beyond repair,” she answered, remembering the mangled remains of each of Voldemort’s horcruxes. “There was a...a cursed fire, or a snake venom with an incredibly rare cure. Neither of which I can offer.”

“It is as I feared,” the old man murmured, eyes fluttering shut briefly. They sat quietly for a long moment, listening to the sounds of the streams flowing, the breeze through the trees and plants around them. Then, the silence was broken as he put out his pipe and reached for his staff. “I must return to young Frodo’s side and see how he has fared through the night,” he said heavily, rising stiffly to his feet. “If you are willing, I would speak with you further before you depart from the valley. In all my long years, I have met only four others who could bend magic to their will. The great smiths of old could shape metal and infuse it with magic, but the skill has faded over the last age.”

“I would like that,” Holly agreed, watching him leave the courtyard. She lingered for a while longer, until the blush of dawn began to fade to early morning sunlight. There was movement elsewhere in the valley by then, and she guessed there would be breakfast somewhere that she could ask for a plate.

* * *

She found the kitchens easily enough, convincing the staff into letting her take a plate into the adjoining kitchen garden to eat amidst the herbs, and then she slipped her plate into the wash basin before returning to the garden and joining the elves who were weeding. The patch of mint looked as if it needed a bit of corralling, and she had the time, energy, and a little bit of magic to spare.

Neville had taught her the trick one day during herbology, a little bit of instinctive magic placing limits on the roots. She had asked him how the mint patch had its world domination attempts thwarted, and he showed her, placing her hand in the middle of the patch and telling her to feel.

It was a neat little trick, and she was certain the keepers of this garden would appreciate it.

When she was politely waved out of the garden after being discovered, she wandered the paths that wove through the valley. Finding the stables again, Holly checked on her horses, glad to find them both contentedly grazing in the large pasture with a number of other horses. She lingered there for a while, reaching into her expanded pouch at her belt for the drop spindle and wool she had placed there that morning. Sitting at her spinning wheel was peaceful, but sometimes it was just refreshing to sit in the grass and spin.

Around noontime, she returned to the kitchens and was shooed onto a balcony adjacent to the interior courtyard outside the Hall of Fire, where she found the younger hobbits and Glorfindel enjoying their own lunch.

“Thuri,” Pippen said, waving her over. “Come, Glorfindel was telling us stories.”

“I hope he hasn’t told any of Gondolin,” she said, sliding into the seat next to Merry, who nodded at her through a mouthful of food. “Because I definitely wanted to hear those.”

“Perhaps I shall tell one next,” the elf said good naturedly. “But I will finish the tale of Luthien, which the hobbits have heard in part.”

Holly listened eagerly, having heard the ballads that the  _ dunedain _ sang around their fires, but here was one who had lived concurrently, possibly even meeting those who had been sung about. It was a beautiful tale, one of love and a desperate struggle against darkness, and Holly wished there was a way she could take it back to Hermione, who had always complained about Shakespeare’s  _ Romeo and Juliet _ .

“Tell us of Gondolin?” she requested after the tale of Beren and Luthien had concluded, their plates having been whisked away by servers. She had pulled her knitting out of her belt pouch, which had made Glorfindel’s eyebrow raise, and was keeping her hands busy with the sock she was working.

“Ah, Gondolin,” he sighed, and they spent the afternoon listening to tales of the fallen city and its heroes.

* * *

The next day, she rose again with the sun and made her way to the kitchen. She was down to her last clean set of clothing that wasn’t her work dress and Linnriel hadn’t returned her dirty clothing yet. Those working in the kitchen gardens were wise to her attempts to join in the familiar tasks, and politely sent her on her way before she could even get started. Stopping in her room to pick up her bow, Holly found Kreacher waiting for her, and she listened to the elf read her the riot act about overusing magic and then report about the comings and goings of the farm. Everything seemed to be going well, according to the elf, although there had been a few visitors from Bree that had come to check on her since she hadn’t been seen lately.

Holly stopped at the stables with apples she had nicked from the kitchen, and groomed her horses before turning them out again, and then she meandered further until she found the training grounds.

There were few in attendance as she arrived, which suited her well enough. Choosing a target, she drew and released, frowning as she hit left of center. Carefully, taking her time, she warmed up until she was consistently hitting her mark before working on increasing her speed.

“ _ Mae govannen _ ,” someone murmured, and Holly turned to see a tall elf with pale hair standing behind her. “That is fine shooting for one of the  _ Dunedain _ .”

“Ranger,” she corrected, glad that for once someone had not commented on her height. “But thank you for the compliment.”

“I had thought that the Rangers of the North were the  _ Dunedain _ ?” the elf said as he strung his bow, taking up position at the target next to hers.

“Most of them are,” she agreed, checking her bow for damage before unstringing it. “But there are a few of us who are not of that fabled lineage and join them in their efforts.”

“Perhaps we shall shoot against each other, if you linger past the council that has been called,” the elf said as she turned to leave the training grounds.

“We shall see,” Holly replied, resolving to ask either Linnriel, Gandalf, or Aragorn what the deal was with the council that she had heard a number of residents of the valley mention. She doubted that she would be asked to attend, which suited her just fine. Perfectly content to act as a foot soldier, Holly knew she didn’t want to be a leader in another war.

* * *

Midafternoon, she found Gandalf in the garden after she had left the hobbits chatting with several of the valley’s residents in the courtyard outside Hall of Fire, smoking his pipe with worry creasing his brow.

“I do not suppose that you know much of healing?” he asked, and she shook her head mutely, willing to let his repeated question pass without questioning on her part. Baggins’ healing must be going poorly, for him to look this concerned.

“Lord Elrond thinks that we may have missed a shard of the blade,” the wizard said, taking a long draw from his pipe before exhaling. “He hopes to have it removed tonight, but it will be very close.”

“I could try calling the shard to me,” Holly offered slowly after a long pause, trying to sort through the possible ramifications. “But it would tear through anything in its path and might cause further damage.”

The old wizard hummed thoughtfully, and Holly turned her mind to everything she had been able to craft, trying to think of anything that might help the hobbit. “There is a cloth I make, a swaddling cloth.”

It had been a sleepless night when she had created it, bent over her loom as she tried to forget the agonized wails of the woman who had lost her child to a sickness it hadn’t been able to fight. The woman’s husband had to physically carry his wife away from the tiny grave. Holly had been desperate to find something, anything that she could do with her magic so that she wouldn’t have to see a similar scene, and she had hit upon the idea of a swaddling cloth, enchanted in its weaving and then embroidered with sigils warding off illness and harm, lending strength to whomever it wrapped. “I make them, imbuing them with my magic with the hope that the child wrapped in the blanket safely sees their first year. I have one or two that I have completed, and I might be able to make another with more strength, since the concentration of magic here is stronger.”

“Could you do such a thing?” Gandalf said as he straightened, his dark eyes focused on her. “Do you think it would help?”

“It might lend him strength to fight the influence of the blade that had stabbed him,” Holly said carefully, not wanting to give false hope. “If you must wait until close to the end, it may provide the edge to keep him from slipping away before he can be stabilized after the shard’s removal. I can make no promises, and I will have to start immediately.”

“What do you need to make this cloth?” 

“My loom; it is also a conduit of my magic. The thread I use is created by me, imbued with magic as I spun it, or simply prepared to accept it, depending on my purpose. But I can get the materials I need quickly, so long as I have a space to work.”

The wizard rose in a rustle of fabric. “I will speak to Lord Elrond, and we will find you a place. Are there any constraints?”

“Somewhere with a strong concentration of magic.” Out of curiosity, Holly reached down to rest her hand against the ground of the garden, feeling for the magic of the valley. “Here will work, if it is allowed.”

“I doubt anyone will take issue with your use of it,” the wizard said, moving towards the entrance to the guest quarters. “Set up your loom and do what you need to. I will speak to Elrond and make him aware of what we will try.”

As he left, Holly called for Kreacher, and the elf appeared in the space in front of her a moment later.

“Do we have any thread that was spun with no magic whatsoever?” she asked, already surveying the garden to decide where she wanted to work. “Or thread spun for swaddling cloths?” She would have to be careful with her materials choice, weaving as much magic as she was contemplating into the fabric. Holly knew she’d been delaying in doing a proper inventory of their supplies, but she had planned on having the winter to do so.

“Kreacher has been spinning plain thread while mistress has been away,” the house elf replied promptly.

“Good. Bring my loom, the large one we use for bolts of cloth or cloaks, and all of the plain thread you can. If it isn’t much, bring all of the unspun wool and sit with me and spin it while I weave. There is a hobbit whose life may depend on the edge a swaddling cloth may bring him. And bring me one of my dresses with no magic in them, one of the ones we use whenever I need to do something big.”

The house elf snapped his fingers, and the dress was in his hands. “Kreacher will bring and set up mistress’ loom. Mistress must go change, if it is as urgent as she says. Trust Kreacher; he has been serving the House of Black longer than mistress has been alive.”

Smiling, she hurried back to her room and toed her boots off, shucking her socks by the door as she yanked her tunic and jerkin over her head and tossed them on the bench at the foot of her bed without even attempting to fold them. Removing the dampeners that she was still wearing around her wrists, Holly braced herself against the flow of magic, setting them carefully into her pack. Once she was stripped to her skin, Holly ducked into the bathing chamber to submerge herself in the tub, scrubbing her skin clean of any of the lotions and balms she had used, and rinsing the magic out of her hair after she had let it down from the braids she had kept it pinned up in. Clean, and no longer wearing any magic on her body, she hurried to comb her hair out before slipping into the plain white shift, and the equally plain white dress, that Kreacher had brought.

Kreacher had brought the loom and assembled it in record time, the threads she needed already waiting for her in a basket next to the loom when she reentered the garden, ignoring the whispers that had followed her from her room. There had been several elves in the hallways, but Holly could not bring herself to be bothered by their comments, instead choosing to let herself sink into the headspace she needed for weaving with magical purposes.

The house elf himself sat himself down on the small stool that he brought with him, a sack full of carded yarn and the house elf-sized spinning wheel they had created together. Nodding to him, Holly set about preparing the loom, taking care to focus only a touch of magic into the thread as she warped the loom, just enough to lay a steady foundation. Too much magic would make the entire thing useless, something she had once learned in enchanting and warding, and now she applied to her handcrafts, which had the benefit of not usually being explosively reactive, in comparison to the wards or enchanted items.

Once everything was ready, Holly took her seat on the bench and picked up the shuttle, closing her eyes and breathing deep, digging her toes into the loose dirt underneath her as she reached for the magic of the valley, feeling it wash over her in waves of protectiveness and nurturing. Grabbing tightly to the elements that felt like health and wellbeing, she added her own magic to the mix, guiding and shaping the magic into protectiveness and good health as she started passing the shuttle through the warp threads.

Almost blindly she sat there, working mechanically in even rows, entirely focused on the magic she was shaping and imbuing into the cloth. She wasn’t aware of the elves that had gathered to watch, murmuring quietly, or how Kreacher glared anytime anyone got too close to her. Gandalf came and went briefly, but did not interrupt.

Night had fallen when she came out of her hyperfocus; the cloth was ready to be removed from the loom, and she stretched briefly before looking around. There were only a few watchers at the moment, and Kreacher was standing guard, glaring at anyone who looked as if they would come too close. Next to his idle spinning wheel was a basket brimming with spun thread, waiting to be used.

“How much time do I have?” she asked, surprised to find herself hoarse.

Linnriel emerged with a pitcher and a cup. Holly waved Kreacher aside when he moved to intercept the elf, taking the cup of water that was poured for her. “Lord Elrond thinks it will be no more than three hours.”

“I have a little time to do more then,” Holly murmured, drinking the entire cup, and then emptying it again when it was refilled. “Kreacher, come help me bind off the edges and set the hem. Did you bring the fine white embroidery thread we made last winter?”

* * *

When Gandalf came for her, knowing that success and failure balanced on the edge of a knife, he was surprised to find the woman sitting on the ground in the moonlight, bent over an expanse of white cloth that shimmered slightly to his eyes. The small creature that had sat watch over her was sitting opposite the woman, running its long fingers in unfamiliar patterns over the fabric.

At his approach, the creature looked up and frowned at him. “What does the old wizard want?” it asked rudely.

“Lord Elrond says he must remove the shard now,” he answered, taking a seat on the nearby bench so as not to tower over it. “If the cloth is completed, it is needed now.”

With a short nod, the creature stood and moved to rest its hand on Thuri’s arm. She twitched, the needle he now noticed in her hand stilling as she looked up. “Yes Kreacher?”

“Old wizard says it is time now,” the creature said gently. “Is mistress finished?”

She bent back over the work, needle flashing in and out of the fabric several more times before she raised her head again. “Yes Kreacher, thanks to your help I was able to finish it on time.”

Thuri rose to her feet, the creature hurrying to pick up the end of the cloth so it wouldn’t drag in the dirt. Together they folded it carefully, and then she turned.

“Do you wish me to come with you?” Thuri asked, and Gandalf found himself strangely reminded of the lady Galadrial as she stood under the moonlight. Her dress hardly looked to be the elegant style the lady of the Golden Wood preferred, though he was no expert in female apparel, the hair that rippled down her back was dark instead of touched with the light of the Trees, and she was short and leanly muscled instead of tall and gracefully thin, but he could almost feel the magic emanating from her as she faced him under the light of the moon, much like the Lady’s power surrounded her like a shroud at all times.

“Perhaps it would be best,” he said, gesturing for her to follow him, curious about this newcomer to Arda. “To show us how best to utilize what you have crafted.”

She followed him down the hall to the room where Frodo lay, her bare feet making no sound on the smooth floors. As they entered, Sam and Bilbo stood up from where they had been banished to the bench in the corner by the healers, the older hobbit holding Sam back with a gentle hand as the younger looked ready to spout questions by the dozen.

Elrond was standing by Frodo’s bedside, Lindir and Arwen nearby, along with several other healers on hand. As Thuri entered behind him, the lord of the valley beckoned her closer. “So this is the work that may help this hobbit cheat death.”

“Death will always take what is owed her,” Thuri said, her voice strangely pitched as she glided over to the bedside and rested her hand on Frodo’s pale hand. “But, I do not think it is his time.”

“How should this work?” One of the healers asked, glancing at the blanket in Thuri’s arms. “When do we wrap him in it?”

“Kreacher is capable of raising Mr. Baggins to a height which will be easier for you to extract the shard,” Thuri said, gesturing to the small creature that had followed them. “While you extract the shard, I will spread the blanket beneath him. As soon as you give the order, Kreacher will return Mr. Baggins to the bed, and we will wrap him in the sheet, much as a mother swaddles her child.”

Elrond glanced over at Gandalf, and he shrugged. What Thuri was proposing did not seem entirely out of the realm of possibility, even if it was something he had thought limited to those of the wise. But this woman and her companion were defying convention simply by what they claimed their blanket did; what was one more impossible thing?

“When you are ready?” Elrond said, seemingly torn between addressing Thuri and the small creature who had stepped up to the bedside. The woman gave her companion a nod, and it raised Frodo into the air, hovering at the right height for Elrond and the healers to work.

As they set to work on the wound in the hobbit’s shoulder, Thuri carefully arranged the blanket on the bed, centering it below the hobbit. Careful not to disturb the healers, Gandalf drifted over to examine the blanket. Running his fingers over the edge, he found patterns embroidered around the border, shapes that seemed like a runic language but not any of the tongues he knew.

“Ancient runes of my people,” Thuri said, her eyes fixed on the hobbit suspended above the bed. “Wards against evil, against ill health.” It was strange, but he could have sworn her eyes had been a murky brown that afternoon when they met in the garden. Now, however, they were a brilliant emerald, and under the shadows of her hair he thought he caught a trace of a mark like lightning across her brow. 

All of the sudden, her complete focus snapped to Frodo, as if he was the only person in the room. A few seconds later, Elrond lifted a small fragment of metal from the open wound and dropped it into the bowl that one of the healers was holding.

“Kreacher, put him gently on the bed now,” Thuri said firmly, ignoring how the healers all looked at her as if she was intruding. A moment later, and the hobbit was lying on the bed, the blanket under him, and Thuri was drawing it up around his legs. Briefly, she looked up at the healers. “If you’re going to do anything about the wound that is still bleeding, I would work quickly before I reach that shoulder.”

That spurred them into action, Elrond drifting away to examine the fragment as the healers sutured the wound closed and wrapped it in clean bandages. By the time Thuri had wrapped all but Frodo’s wounded shoulder, the healers had tied off their bandages.

For a moment, the woman paused, resting her hand lightly on the wounded shoulder. “Where is…” she paused, and for the first time, she glanced around the room. “Where is the burden he bore?” she asked, glancing at Gandalf.

Elrond had returned to the hobbit’s bedside, some of the worry eased from his face. “He bears it still,” the elf said quietly, gesturing towards Frodo’s neck, barely visible under the cloth he had been wrapped in. “I dared not remove it.”

“This will not do,” Thuri said sharply, her hand going to a place on her breastbone in a manner that seemed almost unconscious. Gandalf had seen it twitch in that direction before, when they had spoken for the first time in the garden, and she had described a wizard who had split his soul into containers. “For him to heal properly, he must not be exposed to that foulness. My enchantments will not work if they trap such evil in with him.”

Carefully, Thuri slipped her hand through the layers of the blanket, and Gandalf stilled, seeing Elrond reach out carefully. They dared not touch the Ring, fearful of the power it might exert upon them, even as wholly set against it as they were. An unknown, even one vouched for by the  _ Dunedain _ , with a magic Gandalf did not understand...the thought of her carrying the Ring made his heart quake with dread.

She was lifting the fine chain over the hobbit’s head before they could do anything, and for a long moment, the Ring dangled in the air above the hobbit, exposed to the world. Gandalf fancied he could feel a heaviness in the room that was absent before, a pressure exerted by a force he could not describe.

And then Thuri reached down to the creature, who had moved to her side. Taking the small piece of cloth it handed her, she let the Ring fall into it, the chain pooling around the simple band of gold before she wrapped it tightly in the cloth and bound the bundle with a thin ribbon.

“Here,” she said, placing it on the small stand next to Frodo’s bedside. “This will block out the worst of the harmful influence. If I have time, I will make something specifically for this, which should keep it from corrupting anyone around it. Do not let the hobbit unwrap it until he is fully healed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holly's background, particularly as it relates to the North Kingdom, fleshed out with details from Lord of the Rings Online. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All men submit before an object like that”

**Chapter Four:**

When Holly woke, the sun was streaming brightly through her windows and she had a massive headache. Slowly, she sat up in bed, and was momentarily puzzled as she saw the pieces of her loom leaning against the wall underneath one of the tapestries. Then she remembered the events of the night before and let herself collapse back into the pillows.

_ That ring is a horcrux _ , she thought, her fists clenching in frustration. Of all the artifacts to have come across here, where there was no magic, and she had nothing she could use to destroy it. After her own encounter with them, she had taught herself fiendfyre, had safeguarded vials of basilisk venom, just in case she came across another, but both of those methods were out of her reach. She was lucky she had the clothes that she had created to wrap objects from Angmar that she and the other resistance fighters in Donnvail had managed to purloin.

Knowing that nothing could be done about the horcrux lying in bed, she rose and entered the bathing chamber, intent on washing and finding out what was being planned for the horcrux. First though, she would take the sachet Kreacher had left on her bedside table and go find water for tea.

* * *

Gandalf found her in the late afternoon as she was walking through one of the other gardens she had found, wrapped in a light robe Linnriel had brought to her, saying it was a gift from Lord Elrond for her assistance the night before. Considering that she had no clean clothes beyond the shift that Linnriel had brought to go with the robe, Holly had taken it gratefully, enjoying the silky feel of the material on her skin.

“Well met, Thuri of Esteldin,” he said, the butt of his staff tapping lightly on the flagstones that made up the path as he walked. “Master Baggins seems to be on the path to a full recovery. Your weaving seems to have helped in that matter, since he woke before Lord Elrond had estimated.”

“I am glad to hear he should suffer no debilitating effects,” Holly replied, bending to look over one of the rose bushes in the bed she was passing. “I do not know if it will continue to help, but I might recommend that the cloth remain on his bed until he has regained his former vigour. As a precaution.”

The old wizard smiled warmly at her. “I will pass that along to him, and to those who tend to such things. But I did not seek you out just to pass along news of his recovery. There is to be a feast tonight, to welcome the many guests of this valley. And the Lord Elrond has called a council tomorrow, so that all interested might come and present what news they have. The subject of the ring will be raised.”

“It must be unmade,” Holly said sharply, glancing up at the old wizard’s face, and she suspected that he had already known that from the minute way his expression fell. “Rendered completely beyond use.”

“Do your people have methods of doing so?”

She smiled bitterly, and crouched to run her fingers over the mums starting to come into their own in the cool fall air. “A venom so potent that there is but a single, equally rare cure, and the trick is to both find the cure and administer it in time. It kills in minutes at the most. A cursed, magical, fire that is beyond my skill without my wand. Neither is a viable option, or I would have destroyed it last night.” Holly was certain she had mentioned this to the wizard before, but it did no harm to reiterate it.

“I see,” the wizard said, his voice distant. “Well, Lord Elrond has issued you an invitation to join the proceedings. You were already invited to the feast this evening, but after learning of your skills, he asks if you will join those that gather for the council. He would ask you himself, but there are a number of things he must attend to ‘ere the evening comes.”

She wasn’t sure what more she could offer, and Holly was wary of becoming too entangled in what sounded like the complicated politics of Middle Earth. After her own experiences, she was all too willing to let others lead, contenting herself with following reasonably vague orders at her own discretion. But she had come this far because she had not dared risk the horcrux out of her sight, and she would do whatever it took to see it destroyed. “I will attend, if that is what the Lord Elrond wishes.”

“Very well then,” Gandalf murmured, and he turned to leave. “I will see you tomorrow at the council, for there is much I must do before then.”

* * *

Holly found herself seated at a table below the dais, with the three hobbits she had traveled through the wilderness with. Merry and Pipped greeted her cheerfully, and then the two of them went back to distracting Sam from his melancholy, which seemed to be mostly about how he was not allowed to wait upon Frodo, who had been given a place at the high table on the dais next to a dwarf.

Despite the bounty of the tables, Holly stuck to the staples, not wanting to accustom herself to rich fare before she returned to Bree. Even the dress she was wearing, brought by Linnriel who had helped her bathe, felt like too much, the silk shift underneath and the deep blue silk gown itself, embroidered with the constellations around the sleeve hems. She had been willing to accept the robe the elf had brought earlier, since she had made the blanket that would hopefully help the hobbit heal, but this dress, perfectly tailored to her form, made her feel as if she was playing dress up like a child. A message rider and sheep farmer did not wear these clothes, and she was loathe to present herself as more than she truly was.

The elf had helped her comb out her hair, and Holly had carefully channeled her magic to dry it in a fit of luxury, and then together they had managed to pin it up in a style that Linnriel swore was favored among the elf maidens in the valley.

“I heard in the kitchen that Lord Elrond’s daughter would be in attendance tonight,” Holly pointed out as she slipped a knife up her sleeve and bound another to the inside of her thigh, while Linnriel watched on, torn between what seemed to be consternation and amusement. “I highly doubt that anyone will notice what I wear, given that she is said to be reminiscent of Luthien herself.”

“The Lady Arwen has indeed returned after spending some time with her grandparents, the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn of Lorien.” Linnriel said, fussing with the drape of the sleeves to disguise the knife underneath. “But among those that dwell in the valley, her preference has been made quite clear, and there are few who would pine away after a heart so resolutely decided. Besides, there are visitors from the Greenwood tonight, and from Lindon, who come less frequently, if at all. Every unfamiliar face will be studied tonight.”

Holly had gracefully extracted herself from the debate, turning the conversation towards those who were expected at the council the next morning. There were hardly any men in attendance, only Aragorn and herself, and representatives from the major elf settlements except Lorien, but if the Lady Arwen had recently returned it was likely that what news from the forest of Lothlorien had already been shared with Elrond. Gandalf, of course, but representatives from the company of dwarves that had arrived earlier that day were also to be present.

“Come, Thuri,” Merry said, tugging gently on her sleeve to draw her from her reflections. “The feast is over, and you didn’t touch half of it.”

“I ate well enough,” she replied, allowing herself to trail along with the hobbits as they passed from the feasting hall to the courtyard before the Hall of Fire. Most of the guests for the evening were entering the Hall, and Holly let the hobbits do so, but found herself restless and seeking a walk instead of spending further time in the company of Rivendell’s nobility and their guests.. Slipping into one of the small hallways that funneled into the courtyard after stopping in her room to change out of her dress and into a clean set of her Ranger gear that Linnriel had finally returned that afternoon, Holly slipped out of the Last Homely House and allowed herself to wander the safe paths of Imladris.

Her feet carried her to the stable; to her surprise, it was in a tizzy even at such a late hour.

“It’s the Lords Elladan and Elrohir,” one of the stablehands told her as the elf picked up a horse brush and helped brush one of the new arrivals. “They returned, out of the blue, saying they had news of the Nazgul they were hunting in the Trollshaws. Their company has been trickling in nearly constantly since.”

“I thought the riders had been driven away by the floodwaters of the Bruinen?” Holly joined the stablehands and started cleaning and inspecting tack with one of them since the others had the horses themselves well in hand by that point.

“The young lords were sent out to ensure that very fact,” one of the elves commented as Holly inspected the saddle she was handed for damage. “But given the tizzy they returned in, and that they were not expected for several days yet, I suspect that something has changed.”

“It was important enough to pull Estel out of the feast,” the elf sitting next to Holly said as he passed her a tin of saddle soap. “And the twins wouldn’t do that without it actually being important.”

Everyone in the stables shared a wry laugh, and Holly wondered at the joke. Aragorn had seemed at ease in the wilderness; but the suggestion was that he was interested in attending the feast. Holly had assumed that it would be unlikely, given the attitudes she’d experienced among the Rangers. They were much more comfortable gathered around a campfire than sitting for a formal meal, yet the elves were suggesting he had been upset by being pulled away from one. Shaking her head, Holly refocused on the tack she was cleaning. Aragorn would mind his own matters and she’d mind hers.

By the time they had all of the horses settled and the tack cleaned and well in order, Holly guessed it was midnight, or near after.

“They’re likely still telling tales in the Hall,” one of the stablehands commented as they all stretched the kinks out of their hands and took a breather. The last rider in had promised that there would be no more until the next morning, if at all. “You could go back and listen for a while.”

“I’ve been summoned to the council in the morning,” Holly replied wryly, stretching her arms above her head. “If I can, I’d much rather sleep.”

A brief flash made her head perk up, especially as the other stablehands straightened. “What’s that?”

“Rider incoming,” one of the elves said, refreshing the lanterns that hung around the open area as they had started to burn low this late into the night. “That’s from the sentry at the first split, who was likely signalled by the one at the gates.”

“Another one of the twins’ band?” someone speculated as Holly pulled her hood up over her hair to keep the straw from it, since it still hung down in the braid she had bound it in after she changed, and took a pitchfork and started preparing an empty stall after a gesture from elf in charge of the stables that night . “More news from Thorenhad?”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” the lead stablehand said, glancing at all of the elves assembled. “It’s a stranger though, or it would have been a different signal. You know that. Nethben, run and tell Lindir that we’re to have a guest; he’ll need the advanced notice to sort out a room since we have so many guests.”

“I can guide him down to the Last Homely House, so Lindir doesn’t need to come out this far,” Holly offered as she accepted the hay for the manger.

Nethben, who might have been the youngest of the stablehands on duty if she was any good at guessing those things, took off at a light lope towards the Last Homely House, and Holly perched on an overturned bucket as she waited for the rider to arrive with the rest of the stablehands.

Eventually, the light of a lantern could be seen on the path leading up from the stables, and a rider trudged alongside the sentry carrying it.

“Welcome to Imladris,” the lead stablehand said as he reached for the horse the rider was leading. “What brings you to our valley?”

“I have ridden many days in hopes of finding this valley,” the stranger said, pushing back his hood, revealing his face. “From Gondor, following many old and half-forgotten tales, in hopes that I might find answers to a riddle set to me in a dream.”

“From Gondor?” one of the elves cried in amazement. “Friend, you have come through many dangers, if what we hear is true, and in good time. For tomorrow, Lord Elrond has called a council of the free peoples to discuss the growing threat.”

Holly gestured towards the saddle one of the stablehands had just removed, but he smiled and shook his head. Apparently they had everything under control now that an entire party hadn’t ridden in right as a feast was beginning.

“Come with me friend,” she said as she stood. “Let me lead you to the house of Elrond. The hour is late, if you are to sit on the council tomorrow.”

“Mind your own counsel Thuri,” Nethben teased as he re-entered the stable area. “Master Lindir will meet you in the main courtyard.”

“I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor,” the man said, nodding at her politely.

“And I am Thuri, a Ranger of the North,” Holly said, gesturing towards the path into the heart of the valley. “Please follow me. You have ridden far.”

“Ridden only as far as Tharbad,” Boromir said with a scowl. “My horse was lost there at the ford; I made my way on foot until I encountered the outriders on the high moors. They were kind enough to lend me a horse to speed my journey into the valley.”

“I hope you linger long enough to tell your tale,” she replied, wondering what had brought a man of Gondor so far north. He had the look of the men of the  _ dunedain _ in the north, but there was something slightly different about the shape of his face. “It must be an interesting one, to send the son of Gondor’s steward west of the mountains.”

Boromir said little beyond a tense hum of agreement, and Holly let him be. The late hour was starting to weigh on her as well, and she was happy enough to pass him off to Lindir when she met him in the inner courtyard of the Last Homely House.

* * *

When Holly woke in the morning, it was to Linnriel sweeping in with a tray in her hands. “I heard you were up until late, helping in the stables. I hope you had the sense to change, or the tailors will be cross.”

“I changed, their work is safe,” Holly replied, slipping out from between the covers and gesturing to the dress carefully laid out on the bench under the window. “Do you know what the dress code is for today’s council?”

“Formal,” Linnriel said crossly as Holly entered the washroom to splash water on her face before seating herself at the table. “The tailors were in such a tizzy, trying to figure out how to dress you. Lindir finally had to be called in, and he put his foot down. You came to us as a Ranger of the North; you will attend the council as one.”

“Does that mean trousers?” Holly asked, unable to hide her glee. She appreciated the beauty of the dresses, but they were far too fine for one such as her. And they were cut for fashion, not for practical movement. If she had a choice, she would much rather wear trousers at this council, in the hopes that she might feel at least a little more like she had a reason for being there.

“At least it’s a livery,” Linnriel sighed as she deposited a neatly wrapped bundle onto the bench at the foot of the bed. “Finish your meal, then wash up. I assume you’ll want your hair pinned up, and if you’re not to be late, you’ll need my assistance.”

* * *

Holly found herself shown to a chair to the left of Aragorn, the two of them somewhat off to the side in the rough circle of chairs that had been arranged on the large porch looking out over the largest waterfall in the valley. Elrond and Gandalf had their hands bent towards each other in conversation as she arrived, and Aragorn was sitting alone in the corner of the porch, her chair the only one next to him for a meter on either side.

“I’m going to be honest and say that I have no idea what this is supposed to symbolize,” she declared as Lindir showed her to the chair and glided off to greet the contingent of dwarves that was approaching. Glancing at Aragorn, she realized he was wearing the same clothing he had worn in the wilderness, although it had clearly been washed. “And how come you get to wear that while I’ve been dressed up in livery?”

He glanced at her, and she saw his eyes widen briefly in shock before he shrugged. “Perhaps it was because I was trusted to dress myself?”

“Linnriel would have a fit if she saw you,” Holly muttered as she made herself comfortable in her chair. “I tried to talk her into letting me just wear my normal clothing, but she insisted on this, and then she guilted me into it talking about how the tailors had spent so much time on it, and then they’d looked up the historical records, which is why I know this is supposed to  _ mean  _ something.”

“It’s the traditional heraldry of the kingdom of Arnor,” Aragorn said quietly, glancing at the contingent of elves that was arriving, Glorfindel among them, though not at the head of the group. “Not seen since the splintering of the kingdom after the death of  Eärendur. Even the  _ Dunedain _ do not wear the full livery, contenting themselves with a silver star pin. You ought to have one like it.”

“It was returned to Halbarad after my ‘death’ in the fields before Fornost,” Holly replied, stunned by the symbolism. No wonder her appearance had startled Aragorn; she was the first to openly wear the livery of the kingdom that was his birthright. Even if it was just a silken tunic over a plain white undershirt and leather trousers constructed more for aesthetic than durability.

After Glorfindel’s contingent had been seated at Elrond’s right hand, with an elf Holly thought she’d been briefly introduced to sitting closest to the lord of the valley, a lone elf clad in greens and browns that she recognized from the archery range was seated quickly before another contingent of elves arrived, and the rider from Gondor behind them, looking less tired, but just as travel worn as he had the night before.

“That is Boromir, son of Denethor, of Gondor,” she said quietly as the man was shown into a seat opposite them, also set somewhat apart from the main company, which was not difficult considering the number of distinct groups that seemed to be taking part in the council. “He arrived late last night, speaking of dreams and riddles.”

“I would wonder what was so important to have the son of the steward ride north,” Aragorn mused, and Holly could have sworn that his hand twitched towards the pocket that she thought usually held his pipe before he controlled the impulse. 

“He is the son of the steward of Gondor?” she asked, hiding a grin behind smooth impassivity. “Ought he also be in livery?”

“The livery of Gondor is a white tree and seven stars,” her companion said, rolling his eyes at her. “And since neither kingdom has a  _ king _ , it is premature to put  _ anyone _ in livery.”

“Do you think that Linnriel would accept that answer if I tried to go back and change?” Holly mused as Frodo and an older hobbit were led in by Gandalf, who must have stepped out to go retrieve them.

All Aragorn had time for was a wry snort before Elrond called the council to order.

* * *

It was evident at the outset that this was the type of meeting Holly had been desperately attempting to avoid. After the first five minutes of listening to the elves of the Havens, who Elrond had introduced but Holly had only remembered the name of their leader Galdor, talk of the news of the southern regions brought to him by those seeking passage to the Undying Lands, she reached into her belt pouch, pulling her current knitting project from its expanded depths and settling in for a long meeting. Watching the miffed expressions of the other attendees provided some amusement, and the man from Gondor looked absolutely  _ affronted _ by her gall.

To her amusement, Gandalf seemed completely unbothered, the old hobbit next to Frodo looked about ready to chortle with glee, and Elrond simply looked resigned. Aragorn, to her right, seemed to be glancing up at the ceiling as if looking for inspiration, his hand twitching once more towards the pocket she was certain concealed his pipe.

The discussion eventually wound northwards, and to her surprise, Holly found herself called upon.

“What news from the north my lord?” she repeated, looking incredulously at Elrond, then at Aragorn who motioned for her to answer the question. “Lord Elrond, I have been stationed in Bree for three years; what news might I offer this council? I was merely a messenger, and now a farmer, never a captain or commander.”

“You come into frequent contact with the  _ dunedain _ I am told; you must know something,” the elf-lord said gravely. “Please, Thuri, share with us what you can.”

“Our dwarf-friends control their old hold east of Fornost, but it is a grim struggle to keep it,” she said bluntly, wishing for a map as the council looked at her blankly. “The Dourhands have seized the ruins of Carnoglin to the west and constantly attempt to unseat Durin’s folk. South of that, there was word that a company of elves were attempting to retake the old settlement near  Ost Ardúlin but I do not know if they have established a foothold.” 

Holly found herself starting to take pleasure in her petty recitation. “Men still hold the town of Trestlebridge, the largest settlement in the region, but they are beset by orcs who have settled in the downs and are persistent in their efforts to drive out those who attempt to eke a living in the fields of the North. The  _ Dunedain _ have established a refuge in the ruined city of Dolindîr, but they are few and stretched increasingly thin as they attempt to defend those both south of them, and those that remain in the north, even as they attempt to prevent the forces of Angmar from looting Annuminas.”

She could tell that she had vexed several of the members of the council by using the names of cities and settlements long gone, and Elrond looked as if he was regretting pressing her to speak. Aragorn looked as if he was torn between being amused and being irritated, so she decided to continue until someone ordered her to stop.

“The northernmost reach of the Free Peoples is Aughaire,” she said, and was almost immediately interrupted.

“Angmar has controlled the hillmen of the north for many years now!”

“Angmar has controlled the  _ Trév Duvárdain _ ,” she hissed, tightening her fingers around her knitting needles and refusing to look at the elf who had spoken, one of those sitting near Glorfindel. “The  _ Trév Gállorg _ have long been friends to the  _ Dunedain _ , and there is usually a Ranger encamped in Aughaire at any given moment. Aughaire hosted a company of Rangers for several years until they made their ill-advised trip to Rammas Deluon.” 

Pausing to collect herself, Holly continued, keeping her voice flat. “Years ago, just after Golodir’s company challenged the Rammas Deluon, an attempt was made to stir up rebellion in Donnvail by one of the Trév Gállorg, but the Angarim were pointedly vicious in putting down any rebellion they could find, and finding all rebellion they could. After the lead conspirator was publicly flogged, the opinion of the  _ Dunedain _ and Trév Gállorg both was that it was too dangerous to attempt to stir up rebellion, but they do support any rebels they catch wind of. That was some time ago. I do not know what the current state of affairs is.”

Taking a deep breath, she concluded her report: “According to a reliable source, the Rangers who had been posted on the borders of the Midgewater Marshes were slain by the Enemy; with my absence, there are only two Rangers posted in Bree-land at this time.”

As the council moved on to other topics, Holly settled back in her chair and picked up her knitting again, carefully straightening it in her lap before picking up where she had paused. Aragorn glanced at her once, and then turned back into the council, apparently not interested in taking her to task for nearly losing her temper, for which she was grateful. Holly hadn’t had to think about Aughaire and the goings on in Angmar for several years now, and her report had stirred up a host of emotions she had rather not deal with at the moment.

* * *

After the dwarves from Erebor spoke their piece, Elrond treated the entire council to a history lesson about the One Ring of the Enemy, and Holly felt her mouth tighten as she found eerie parallels to the horcruxes she had once known in the tale. Her fingers tightened briefly as she thought of the vials of basilisk venom she had hoarded, of the hours of practice she had spent until she could control fiendfyre, and all of it was worthless to her now. 

Watching Aragorn and Boromir get into a minor spat as Aragorn publicly claimed his heritage brought a brief flash of amusement, but it was quickly washed away listening to the old hobbit’s tale. She felt a...sympathy for the creature who had borne the ring for so many years, and she firmly resettled her knitting in her lap as she refrained from reaching up to where the locket horcrux had to be cut away from her neck. 

Gandalf’s tale of Saruman’s treachery was chilling. From the sound of it, not only did they have a demigod on a rampage to deal with, they also had a wizard of Grindelwald's caliber to contend with, and the free peoples were trapped between the two powers. Halbarad had once talked of sending her to Isengard, to Saruman, since he was the only wizard that they knew to regularly stay in a single location, but she had always pushed back against it, choosing instead to make herself useful in the north. Now she could only be grateful; if Saruman’s betrayal was as complete as Gandalf made it out to be, she could easily have been pressed into service by the wizard, whether she willed it or not.

She only half listened to the tale of his ride from the Shire to Rivendell, and then listened to the debate over the fate of the ring. Thankfully, Gandalf was set on destroying it, and his words swayed the elves that had argued for passing it to another bearer or abandoning it in the depths of the sea. Holly was unsure of what she would have said, had they considered shutting it away, but she was steadfastly resolved to see it destroyed before she returned to Bree.

Just when she thought the debate was over, Boromir, who had remained quiet through the many tales that had followed his own explanation of his presence at the council, spoke.

“I do not understand all this. Saruman is a traitor, but did he not have a glimpse of wisdom? Why do you speak ever of hiding and destroying? Why should we not think that the Great Ring has come into our hands to serve us in the very hour of need? Wielding it the Free Lords of the Free may surely defeat the Enemy. That is what he most fears, I deem.”

“The Men of Gondor are valiant, and they will never submit, but the may be beaten down. Valour needs first strength, and then a weapon. Let the Ring be your weapon, if it has such power as you say. Take it and go forth to victory!”

“All men submit before an object like that,” Holly snapped, her knitting falling into her lap as she clenched the arms of her chair to keep herself in it. “There is no man, elf, dwarf, or hobbit that can withstand the power that it wields. Even the mightiest, the wisest, or the most humble among us  _ will _ be corrupted by the Ring. With it, Sauron may be beaten back, but while it remains, he cannot be destroyed. Have you heard nothing here today of what happened at Dagorlad? Despite the force arrayed against him, Sauron survived and retreated to gather his strength for an even greater assault on Middle Earth. All the while, the free peoples have been besieged on all sides for generations, and the stalwart heroes of old are naught but half-forgotten tales. Gil-Galad and Elendil fell at Dagorlad, as did Anarion, and Isildur not long after. The blood of the Numenorean kings has become diluted with time, and there are few elves who yet remain here that could equal the might of those that have passed to the Undying Lands in the West. Had I the means, I would destroy the ring right now before it corrupts another as it has already corrupted.”

“And what would a woman, a self-professed messenger and a farmer, know of such a thing?” Boromir sneered at her before anyone could intercede.

“My oath was sworn to Isilduir’s line, and I have done my duty to their satisfaction. It is  _ their  _ judgement I am bound by, not yours. I may be a woman, I may have only ridden messages, I may currently be a farmer, but I have the sense to destroy an object that  _ we have just heard _ to be capable of warping even those with the best of intentions. Take up the ring, and you doom us all. ”

She didn’t look, but she knew that the scars on the back of her hand were standing out in stark white lines. “Boromir, son of Denethor the Steward of Gondor, what you need to understand most about me is that  _ I must not tell lies _ . Over my life I have bound myself to being truthful with my allies, even when the truth is unflattering or difficult. I will lie to an enemy, but never to an ally.”

“ _ Thuri _ ,” Aragorn snapped, and she realized that she was standing when she saw him rise. “Sit. Down.”

“Calm yourself,” Gandalf murmured, and Holly collapsed back into her chair, only to find that her fingertips were sparking with little tendrils of flame. Rising again, she bowed to the company at large.

“I apologize for my outburst, but the Ring  _ must be destroyed _ ,” she said as calmly as she could manage before gathering her knitting and leaving the porch where the council was being held.

* * *

She didn’t know how long she had been sitting in the garden when Glorfindel came to find her.

“You are a woman of many mysteries,” he said as he took a seat on the bench, shuffling her discarded boots and tunic aside. “I see now why the  _ Dunedain _ of the north would have sent you to Bree, and on to Rivendell. You are older and wiser than you look,  _ Thuri _ .”

“What gave me away?” she asked, closing her eyes again and letting her breathing fall back into the pattern she was enforcing. “And how many people picked up on it?”

“Lord Elrond suspects, as I did until you confirmed it,” the elf-lord replied. “Gandalf mentioned that your people were also called wizards?”

“Women were called witches. Wizards were male magic users.” Pausing for a count of ten, she continued: “I try not to let on that I’ve been around longer than I look; among the  _ Dunedain _ , it is not entirely uncommon, so they say little.”

“Laerdan travelled with Golodir,” Glorfindel said casually, as if they weren’t discussing an expedition that had been lost decades before she ought to have been born, based on her physical appearance. “Do you know if he fell at the Rammas Deluon?”

“His body was not among those recovered from Malenhad, but there were many that were lost and not found.” Giving up on passive meditation, she moved to the katas she had picked up from her travels in Japan, hoping that the even, flowing movements would settle her spirit. “Despite all advisement, he was intent on crossing the Rammas Deluon for a reason he wouldn’t share with anyone.”

“He lost his daughter when Fornost fell.” A look of great sadness crossed his face as he sighed. “She was a promising smith, but was ensnared by Sauron when he walked among the  _ Gwaith-i-Mírdain _ in Eregion before this valley was settled. He had hoped to one day free her fully of the influence he had wrought on her, since she was never the same since his deception was revealed, but she fell with a great many in the fields before Fornost before he could succeed. He was broken, after that day, and never truly found peace and would not seek passage to the Undying Lands to find it.”

“Losing a child...it destroys something inside you,” Holly replied quietly, thinking of the long year after Tonks’ death and how Andromeda had seemed but a shadow of herself. “I do not blame him.”

“You lost someone that day, did you not?” he pressed gently, and she stopped her movements, knowing that she would not find the peace she was looking for while he continued to question her. “There is a grief on your face much like the grief I see on many of my brethren’s faces.”

“I lost a lover, not a husband or a soulmate,” she said flatly. “I warned him not to trifle with the Watching Stones, and he chose to go anyway. Yes, I mourned his death, but it was not the end of me.”

“You went to Donnvail instead, and instigated the rebellion.”

“I went to Donnvail instead and had to be smuggled south to Esteldin when the Angarim took exception to my efforts,” Holly corrected him, stretching before she started tucking her clothing back into place. While she had been attempting to meditate, she had shucked first her boots, then the tunic that Linnriel had insisted upon, and then the white shirt she wore underneath had come untucked from her trousers, and her socks had found their way off her feet...in short, she was significantly mussed and the elf who had taken such pains to make her presentable that morning would probably strangle her.

“So why did you follow the Ring?” Glorfindel asked, handing her the tunic she had discarded, which she shrugged into and attempted to sort out the wrinkles and lumps. 

Giving up when she was mostly tidy, Holly took a seat on the bench next to the elf and started tugging on her socks, and then her boots. “As I said, it must be destroyed. I have...come across similar objects that contain part of another’s soul before, many decades ago, and I refuse to let this one leave my sight until I have been assured of its destruction.”

“How were those objects destroyed when you came across them before?” Glorfindel asked, offering her his arm as they stood and moved towards the exit of the courtyard. “Could we not do the same with the Ring, without carrying it to Mordor?”

“I...the methods that I used are beyond my reach, unfortunately.” When she had Kreacher pack her vault and Grimmauld Place, she hadn’t wanted to risk transporting the venom she had stockpiled, leaving it to Ron and Hermione to care for in the interim. “Would that I have known, I would have ensured one of the methods I used was still available to me.”

* * *

Glorfindel had left her not long after, called away by Erestor, Elrond’s chief counsellor, who she recognized from the gathering that morning. Holly continued to wander through the halls of the Last Homely House, nodding politely at those she came across. The hobbits, she spotted cloistered with Gandalf in a sunny alcove, but Aragorn was nowhere to be seen. Boromir, thankfully, seemed to have retired to his rooms.

She came across the elf who had spoken to her on the training ground the other day; Holly had seen him around since then, but hadn’t gotten his name until the council yesterday. “ _ Mae govannen _ , Legolas.”

“ _ Mae govannen _ ,” the elf replied, a slight smirk on his face. “I see your arrows are not the sharpest thing you carry.”

“No, that would be my tongue,” Holly admitted easily, familiar with her faults after a lifetime. “Or perhaps my tongue when I’m in a temper.”

“It is a common failing, even among the  _ eldar _ ,” Legolas said, laughter gleaming in his eyes. “But perhaps I can offer an outlet? I did wish to shoot against you.”

“My skills surely will fall short of the Prince of the Woodland Realm,” she demurred, although the challenge sounded like a perfect way to burn off her head of steam. “I fear I will not be much of a challenge.”

“On a training field, perhaps not,” he agreed with a shrug. “But while the hunters of the Woodland Realm are familiar with the training fields, our arrows find more service amongst the trees that surround our home. I suspect you are much more familiar with that as well. Come, hunt with me in the forests surrounding this valley, and those that work in the kitchens will thank us for the fresh game.”

“Let me change out of this finery, and I will join you.” Legolas told her to meet him at the place where the path sloped upwards out of the valley, and then headed off down the hall. Hurrying to her room, Holly slithered out of Linnriel’s chosen livery and into her riding clothes from the night before, and made sure her hair was securely pinned in place before grabbing her bow and quiver.

* * *

Legolas was waiting with a pair of elves who looked almost identical, and resembled the lord of the valley.

“Thuri, may I introduce Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Lord Elrond,” Legolas said, gesturing at the pair. “Elladan, Elrohir, Thuri, a Ranger who rides with the  _ Dunedain _ in the north.”

“ _ Mae govannen _ ,” Holly said, bowing politely to the elves. “I believe we met in passing the other day as you rode down to the Ford.”

“Ah, the Ranger who came with the hobbits,” one of them said with a laugh. “So you’re the one who beat Estel on the flat. Glorfindel couldn’t help but tell.”

“I had an unfair advantage,” she demurred. “How could I not win when it was I who called the start?”

“Is that the type of sneakiness they’re teaching in the North these days?” the other twin asked. “If so, perhaps we ought to return to congratulate your instructors. Fairness is best left on the training salle, since survival is the way of life beyond safe borders.”

“You have not seen me shoot yet,” Holly replied with a shrug as Legolas gestured for them to proceed up the path out of the valley. She had noticed that both twins were armed for hunting, dressed in green-browns that would make them almost invisible among the trees, much like her own outfit. “Perhaps I am a terrible shot, but a marvellous trickster.”

“We shall count our kills then,” Legolas put in, running a finger against his arrow fletching. “Difficulty of kill and difficulty of shot. Elladan, perhaps you and Thuri will go in one direction, while Elrohir and I go in the other?”

“Meet in the Gate at dusk,” Elladan said with a nod, and Legolas broke off with the other twin, heading westward into the trees. “Well Thuri, shall we begin our hunt?”

Uncoiling the bowstring she’d kept in her waist pouch, Holly strung her bow in a smooth movement and checked to make sure her quiver was in place. “Lead on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More background from LOTRO. Also, I have a tumblr (same username) if anyone's interested, though I post rarely. I do post when I put new chapters up though.
> 
> Is there interest in what Holly was doing in Donnvail? I've got bits and pieces that I could be persuaded to pull together into a coherent one-shot that I'd post as a side story if there's enough interest. Let me know in the comments/via PM if that's something you'd want to see.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Those that were wiser, those that were older, they all abdicated their duty and children fought and bled and died for a war that their parents and grandparents began."

**Chapter Five:**

Returning to her room, Holly nearly bumped into Boromir in the hallway.

“Pardon me,” she said coolly, still not certain what her opinion of the man was after his comments that morning. “I did not see you there.”

“It is of no consequence,” he returned, equally stiff. “Two are to blame, when each has functioning eyes.”

Sidestepping him, Holly continued down the hallway to her room and found Linnriel waiting for her, a dress laid out on the bed.

“There is another dinner tonight, to mark the conclusion of the main council,” the elf said, pointing towards the bathing chamber as Holly leaned her bow against the wall and placed her quiver next to it. “And you have been rolling around in the leaves or I’m seeing things.” The tone of exasperation was clear in her voice.

“I was hunting with the sons of Elrond and Legolas Greenleaf,” Holly called as she shucked her clothing, tossing it into the conveniently placed basket before slipping into the bathing shift she’d grown accustomed to using. “We managed to bring in several choice selections.” Legolas had to be the showoff with the heavy boar he brought down, but Holly herself had nailed a fine brace of pheasants that she had shot, releasing her second arrow before the first had even made contact. According to the sons of Elrond, she had likely won on technical skill, if it hadn’t been for the force needed to bring down Legolas’s boar. “You will likely see our catches in the kitchens in the coming days.”

The boar had been welcomed warmly by the kitchen staff, and Holly’s pheasants were equally appreciated. Each of the twins had managed a deer, which had been whisked away by eager hands. Linnriel entered the bathing chamber in her overrobe as Holly slid into the water, careful to keep her head dry so that the elf could help remove the pins. Having someone else’s help was a luxury that she planned to savor for as long as she could.

“Hunt or no hunt, if you are to be presentable at Lord Elrond’s table, I need time to work,” Linnriel said, her tone firm, yet her hands began gently undoing the braids that Holly had wound her hair up into with the elf’s help that morning. “There, that’s the last pin. Under, whenever you’re ready.”

Together they managed to get Holly bathed, dressed, and her hair combed cleanly into long tresses that Linnriel bound with a bit of silvery cord. This time her dress was a heavier velvet, a deep blue with a single silver star traced out in silver threads on the bodice, surrounded by seven smaller stars, and silver embroidery about the hems.

“He would say that it is premature to dress me so,” Holly rolled her eyes as she saw the dress, wishing she could wear something else, even the livery. Courtly finery was too much for her these days, a reminder of a time long, long ago when she was much more important than she wanted to be. “Since there is no kingdom in the north. And I am not its queen, nor its nobility.”

“He must get used to it,” the elf muttered, thrusting the silk shift at Holly and shuffling her behind the folding screen that had appeared in her room a few days ago. “The north kingdom will rise again, if my lady has anything to say about it. And you are here, and you were important enough to attend the council, so you will stop quibbling with the tailor’s choices.”

“Will the Lady Arwen be attending dinner tonight as well? I did not see her at the council this morning?” Linnriel’s words made Holly curious.  _ If my lady has anything to say about it _ . Beyond the distant familial relationship, why would the Lady Arwen be invested in the fate of the  _ dunedain _ ?

“My lady is headstrong, and her father dare not tempt her overmuch,” Linnriel said with a laugh as she came behind the screen and helped Holly into the dress. As she laced up the back of the bodice, the elf continued cheerfully: “Lord Elrond asked my lady to attend to several tasks in the library this morning in his absence; supervising the scholars as they examine any lore that might aid us in the task that has been set before us. But she will be at dinner tonight, and her brothers and Estel will be there as well, or risk her wrath.”

There was something in the subtext that Holly was missing, and she suspected it was the same thing she had missed the night previously at the stables, but she let it slip by her once again, instead focusing on securing her knives under her dress and letting Linnriel wrangle her hair. Once she was released, the elf practically shoving her feet into thin slippers and out the door, Holly almost immediately nearly bumped into Gandalf.

“My apologies,” Holly said, automatically turning her near-stumble into a slight curtsey. “I was not looking where I was going.”

“It is no trouble,” the old wizard said with a smile. “May I escort you to the hall?”

Warily, wondering what he might ask her after her display that morning, Holly let her hand rest lightly on his arm and let him guide her towards the feasting hall.

“Have you ever considered getting a staff?” he asked as they walked. “I know you have achieved great things since you were left without your wand, but a staff may open the door to new possibilities, or regaining old abilities.”

She stiffened, unconsciously remembering another old wizard, years ago, who had acted as a genial grandfather but who had let so much evil happen in the hope of winning a war that ended up being fought by children. Gandalf hadn’t seemed to be prone to the same mistakes Dumbledore had, but Holly wasn’t willing to let her guard down. Not after the way she’d been burned previously. Even though Holly suspected he was mostly asking from a position of general curiosity, with only a little bit of thought towards how she might impact the war effort, she couldn’t entirely suppress her knee jerk reaction.

“It was suggested to me, but I do not know how I would make myself one,” she said tersely as they approached the hall. “I studied very little wandlore; most of what I did study was eccentric at best, dangerous at worst.”

“And what was that?”

“ _ Death _ ,” she whispered, and then politely removed her hand from his arm and let one of the elves at the door to the hall guide her to her seat.

* * *

Again, after the meal was finished, the feasting company adjourned to the Hall of Fire. Holly lingered in the shadows for a time, careful to avoid Gandalf, who had been caught up in conversation with Elrond, Glorfindel, and Erestor, but also avoiding the hobbits, who had clustered around Frodo and his uncle after attempting to engage her in conversation during dinner and promised to provide a more thorough introduction to Bilbo Baggins than the vague one she had gotten during that morning’s council. They looked equal parts grave and merry, and she felt that she would dampen their mood if she lingered long with them.

For a moment she entertained approaching Boromir, who was sitting sullenly in the corner of the hall and listening to all that happened around him, but she was in a poor mood for an argument. It was more likely that she’d set something on fire if she spoke with him for very long, and she was trying hard to avoid that possibility. It had been years since she’d lost control of her magic enough to start sparking, and she’d like to avoid outbursts of accidental magic when there was no reversal squad from the ministry available to correct her mistakes.

The sons of Elrond and Legolas seemed to be talking about further hunts, if their gestures were anything to go by, and she knew she’d be accepted in their circle from their expedition that afternoon, but Holly felt closed in, as claustrophobic as she had been during the stifling summers in her tiny bedroom with bars on the window.

As the thought occurred to her, she turned on her heel and strode out of the hall, ignoring how the flare of her dress around her reminded her of Snape sweeping down the corridor. On her way out the door, she passed Aragorn standing in the shadows with the Lady Arwen, but beyond dipping a brief curtsy to the both of them, she didn’t stop. If he wanted to speak with her, he could follow her.

Outside in the inner courtyard, she pushed through the large doors that separated the courtyard from the rest of the valley, stepping from smooth stone pavers to equally smooth dirt paths and then veering off to the right, off the well-trodden path onto one that might be charitably called a deer track.

Somewhere along the tiny path, weaving through the brush, she lost her shoes, but she honestly couldn’t be bothered, though she distantly realized that whoever made them might be upset with her. Even the trees of the valley and the undergrowth seemed to press in on her, pushing her onwards until she came suddenly out from under the trees and into an empty pavilion. The transition from forest floor to cool, smooth stone startled her out of her panic enough to make her pause, and her next steps were faltering as she moved towards the short wall at the edge of the pavilion furthest from her.

Collapsing down onto the cool stone floor, leaning against the half wall, Holly looked out over the valley and just let herself  _ breathe _ .

* * *

Glorfindel stepped lightly into the pavilion, raising an eyebrow when he saw the woman sitting on the floor and leaning against the low retaining wall that looked out over the valley. Someone had said she had left early, but nobody who had been in the Hall of Fire could say when, or where she had been going. Since Gandalf and Erestor had gotten into another one of their debates, Glorfindel had been the one to volunteer when Elrond had wanted to have a word with her.

Thuri didn’t look up as he approached, and he slowed his steps, taking care to scuff his boots against the stone underfoot, a small enough sound that might alert her to his presence. It worked, but the flinch she couldn’t suppress was violent, and her eyes held a note of panic before she recognized him.

“I would have thought you’d still be in the Hall of Fire,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I’m sorry, is this your usual thinking spot?”

“It is everyone’s thinking spot,” he replied gently, taking a seat on the retaining wall a short distance from her. “But at the moment, it seems to be yours.”

She paused for a moment, as if choosing her words. “I was not so much thinking as I was...existing.”

“Sometimes, one needs to simply be.” Glorfindel had done that. Had done that often in the days after his return to the lands east of Valinor, had done it again after the loss of so many lives at Dagorlad. It was the only way to cope, setting the spirit free to roam the world until it was ready to come back. “Your distress was noted tonight.”

Elladan and Elrohir had mentioned it, wondering what had happened since their afternoon hunt. Legolas had frowned, but nodded in agreement. Her dinner companions said that she had eaten little, and spoken even less. Linnriel said that Thuri had been in good spirits when she had dressed, but something had happened after she had left.

“It was simply old memories,” Thuri murmured, her gaze falling to the hands resting in her lap, nestled among the folds of her skirt. “The kind that lose little of their potency in aging.”

“Ah,” he managed to say, feeling the heat of the Balrog on his skin for a moment, then the pull of claws in his hair and the feeling of falling, of impact before  _ nothing _ . “They are often unkind.”

She looked at him with a wry half smile, and he was surprised to see that her eyes were green, a vivid, bright color that reminded him of spring shoots and new growth. He had thought her eyes were some shade of brown. “The younger they were made, the more...unkind such memories are. But I have oriented myself again, and I am resolved upon the path I must walk.”

“And where does this path lead?” He was curious, he had to admit. A human, a woman, who was clearly not Numenorean, but who shared the same look of long years unnumbered as Aragorn and many of his long dead kinsmen. Even some of the  _ Eldar _ bore that look, from time to time when their centuries hung heavily upon them. And she could call forth magic in her hands, as not even the  _ Istari _ could, as well as into the work which came from her hands. Elrond had spoken to him of the cloth she had created for the hobbit, and while Frodo was out, Glorfindel had examined it himself, feeling the power gently woven into each strand as he hadn’t since the vast majority of their craftspeople had been lost when Eregion fell. An unknown such as her could shape many fronts in the coming struggle; which front she found herself drawn to might tell him more of her character.

The smile was gone, her lips thinned and pressed together in determination. “To the destruction of the Ring,” she said, her words imbued with the strength of stone. “I will not allow such an evil to persist in this world, and I refuse to turn my back on it, though I may feel pulled in other directions.”

Her blazing determination faded from her face, and she looked thoughtful as she looked out over the valley again. “My people had a form of magic that focused on future-sight,” Thuri said, her voice carrying hints of old pain, almost so buried that she might not hear them herself. “I was never very talented with it, but much of my early life was driven by it. Many areas of magic did I study for a time, but never that of prophecy and portents. Yet I seem to know, at critical points in my life, which path I should tread. My magic led me to Bree that night, and it drove me here. Now I feel that I am bound to follow the Ring. Where I will walk in that quest, I know not. But I will walk it.”

Well, that answered Elrond’s question, most likely. He had not fully confided in any of them, but Glorfindel had known the Master of Imladris for many years, and suspected that his thoughts had turned towards Thuri when he was considering members for the company tasked with accompanying Frodo and the Ring.

“Does it frighten you?” he asked, the thought so sudden that it surprised even himself.

“No,” Thuri whispered, and when she turned to look at him again, he was surprised to find fury in her eyes. “It  _ angers _ me. I was perfectly content to serve as a foot soldier in a war that I chose to fight in. I had no wish to be more than that. Yet, if I accompany the Ring, there is no doubt that, should any of the free peoples survive to tell the tale, those that accompany the Ring will be remembered and much revered.” 

Rising in volume, her voice filled the pavilion. “I was a soldier before I had reached adulthood, a soldier in a war that claimed many of the people that I loved. The master of my school ensured that I was raised as a lamb for slaughter, and yet I survived. And then, I had to deal with the aftermath. Those that were wiser, those that were older, they all abdicated their duty and  _ children  _ fought and bled and  _ died  _ for a war that their parents and grandparents began.”

Ringing out, the echoes of her voice seemed to hover in the air around them. Glorfindel could not help but be reminded of the Lady Artanis, who was one of the few left that could command such unconscious power. Yet Thuri was almost the Lady’s polar opposite, small where Artanis was tall, dark and pale where the lady was fair and radiant. For a moment, Thuri’s power remained uncloaked, and then, much as Artanis did during the few times she openly exerted her strength, the power seemed to fold into Thuri, as if a cloak had been wrapped around it to hide it from the world.

“And the very people who began the war forgot what it cost those children, and there was no one left willing to carry their torch,” Thuri murmured, her gaze returning to the darkened valley. “Those that did were easily shouted down and forced back into their corners, and the world carried on much as it had before the war that had nearly torn their lives asunder.”

In a fluid movement she rose, her hair flowing down around her, drawing the moonlight much as the silk embroidery on her dress did. “The hour grows late, and there will be much to consider upon the morn.  _ Na lû e-govaned vîn _ Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower.”

Silent upon her bare feet, she glided out of the pavilion and continued on down the path to the Last Homely House.

He sat quietly for a moment before another entered the pavilion. “Have I interrupted an assignation?”

Aragorn chuckled as he came to lean against one of the pillars. “Nay, my lady has been drawn away by her father, while I have been dispatched to seek out wayward wanderers.”

“He has spoken to you?” Glorfindel asked, seeing the answer in the man’s face but wanting to hear it confirmed.

“I will accompany Frodo and the Ring as far as he will have me,” Aragorn answered, absentmindedly rubbing the ring on his left hand. “Where my path leads, I know not, but if it should end with the destruction of Sauron, that will be enough.”

“It seems a night for many paths to be decided,” he said, glancing out at the darkened valley. “For I have decided that I will not go with the Company. Thranduil’s son will represent the  _ Eldar _ .”

“Lord Elrond had wished for at least one representative from each race, and I know Legolas will be a great help to the company,” Aragorn said thoughtfully. “But what makes you choose to remain behind?”

“My heart tells me that my place is here, in the West.” Glorfindel ran his fingers over the stones beneath him, old now, when he had once seen them laid new. “For better or for worse, I will not see Dagorlad again. Once was enough, and there is the threat of Angmar in the north to contend with. War will visit these lands, despite their distance from the source, and I will be here to stand against evil.”

Aragorn hummed in agreement. “I would stand with my brethren, but the fate of the Ring has been bound to my line through Isildur, and I would not let it be said that the line of Isildur failed to correct his mistake. The time has come to put everything on the line for the redemption of the fallen kingdoms. I grow older, and my people are fewer than ever before. Gondor and Arnor will rise again if we succeed, and if we fail there will be nothing left to redeem regardless.”

“Elrond had thought to present a company of nine, to answer to the Nazgul,” Glorfindel mused, counting off the known members. “Yourself, and Master Baggins. Legolas Greenleaf and Thuri.”

“Sam will go with his master; there is no separating them,” Aragorn added wryly. “And I have no doubt that Merry and Pippin will argue their way into the company. But I believe Boromir of Gondor will commit himself to the company, if only to attempt to persuade us to turn our steps towards Gondor in the end, and Gimli, son of Gloin, has volunteered to stand for Durin’s folk. Of course, then there is Gandalf.”

“Ten Walkers, to answer to the Nine.”

“Perhaps it is Seven, as the dwarf lord’s rings once numbered, and Three for those that remain untouched and stalwart against the Enemy?” the man proposed with a chuckle. “Though I know not how those divisions would be made.”

“The Seven and the Three, set against the One and the Nine.” Something in Glorfindel’s heart told him that this seemed more advantageous than setting nine against the Nine. “Perhaps there is a greater hope in this quest than we know.”

* * *

When Holly awoke in the morning, she was surprised to find the morning half spent, until she remembered the events of the night before.

“Kreacher,” she called softly, feeling the tug on her magic as she slipped out of her night shift and into serviceable leggings and a tunic. As the elf appeared, she sat down cross-legged on the floor and gestured for him to sit across from her while she braided up her hair. “I’m going to be away for a while. Let’s talk about the farm.”

“Kreacher can keep it running,” the elf said, crossing his arms over his chest and jutting out his jaw. “Mistress has no need to worry.”

“People will grow suspicious if I disappear but the farm continues to run,” Holly pointed out with a roll of her eyes. “And we can’t just hide the farm. There’s not enough magic in either of us or the land to sustain a  _ fidelius _ .”

His scowl deepened. “Is Mistress complaining about Kreacher?”

“Mistress is pointing out that we’ll have to close down the farm,” Holly threw up her arms in exasperation. “You can have an opinion about where you go and what you do. I’m sure Halbarad and Daervunn would be happy to have you in Esteldin, and the flock will help bolster their stores. Or you could go to Tinnudir and Calenglad, and help him keep Annuminas’ treasures safe. You enjoyed thwarting the tomb robbers there, right?”

“Kreacher would like to stay here.” Holly was surprised to hear the elf’s voice shift from his usual stubborn tone into something more cautious, and when she glanced at him she cringed to see him looking as if he was waiting to be struck. While she had nurtured a much better relationship with him after the war was over, he was still hesitant to offer his own wishes and opinions, though he was plenty willing to scold her when she needed it.

“I’m sure we can try and make arrangements for you to stay here,” she said carefully, watching his reaction. “Would you like me to see if we can get you a room here, and move the flock, so you can continue to tend to the sheep and keep up with the spinning and weaving?”

The elf thought about it for a moment, then nodded jerkily. “Kreacher does not need this room,” he said, gesturing to their surroundings with his chin. “Kreacher only needs a place to store his wool and to keep his loom and wheel when it is wet.”

“I’ll speak with Lindir,” Holly promised, nodding decisively. Kreacher rarely asked her for anything, preferring to let her make the major decisions, but this she would grant him. Neither of them knew what lay ahead, and he would be safe in Imladris for as long as the power of Lord Elrond kept the Enemy at bay. “We’ll see what we can do to get you settled. While I do that, why don’t you pack up the farm and get the animals ready to move. Lindir may want to meet you, so prepare for me to call you, and we’ll talk about when you should move the animals then.” She was reasonably certain, if she drew heavily on the valley’s power, that she could sustain two more round trips, and the magic Kreacher would need to corral the animals for transportation. The items would go in one of her expanded trunks, so there was no trouble there, but the animals were tricky.

“Kreacher will go close up the farm.” With a short, sharp nod, he disappeared, and Holly stood up, grabbing an apple from the bowl on the table before she exited her room in search of Lindir.

She found him in the central courtyard (which she still didn’t necessarily know  _ why _ they called it a courtyard because there was no grass, dirt, or unpotted plants in sight and it had a roof) overseeing a swarm of elves, with a piece of chalk in one hand and slate balanced between his hip and the other.

“We will need the second guest hall opened for three days,” Lindir was saying as he scratched out a note on the slate. “According to Lord Gloin, an entire party will be arriving on their way to the north, where they will hopefully lend us aid by clearing some of the goblins in the mountains.”

Waiting until he was done overseeing arrangements, Holly finished off her apple as she leaned against one of the pillars. As the last of the elves left him, heading towards the section of the house which she had learned was a second guest wing, he turned to look at her, eyeing her warily.

“That is the face of someone who is adding to my list of tasks,” he said, transferring the chalk to the hand that held the slate so he could rub at the bridge of his nose. “What can I do to help you?”

“This is going to sound strange, but bear with me,” Holly said wryly, pushing off the pillar. “I’m not sure you’ve encountered him, but I have a companion who came with me from my homeland.”

“Your assistant the night you were weaving.” Lindir nodded, picking up his chalk again and preparing to make a notation. “I assume this is about him?”

“He has been staying at our farm outside of Bree, but since I have chosen to go forth with the Ring, we will be closing the farm so as not to arouse suspicion from the locals. Kreacher, my companion, has requested to relocate to Rivendell, since it is the closest thing that either of us have found to the magic of our homeland.”

“So you are looking for long term lodging for him?” Lindir began to write something, but paused. “I apologize, but did you say he was staying in  _ Bree  _ all this time?”

“We have a method of crossing long distances, but it can only rarely be used. If it weren’t for the ambient magic in the valley and my presence here, he would not be able to make the jump at all.” It would put her in bed for a day afterwards if she tried it; lack of magic had forced her to relearn any number of things, especially since she tended to let Kreacher use the bulk of the magic they shared. “He will be bringing a herd of sheep, a dog, and my horses are already present. If the animals are too much trouble, he could take them to Esteldin…”

“No need,” Lindir said, raising an eyebrow. “Imladris’s pastures are expansive enough to accommodate many more animals than we currently have in residence. What type of lodging would your assistant, Kreacher?, require?”

“It does not need to be a room in the guest quarters,” she hurried to assure him before he could take the wrong idea and run with it. “In fact, he would prefer a space with just enough room to keep the loom I used the other night, his spinning wheel, and a wardrobe. If you have a sheep shed with an expansive loft, I believe he would find that ideal.”

“We have a small cottage used by those who used to tend the sheep, but it has been empty for many years since its last resident passed into the West,” Lindir mused, tapping the chalk against the edge of the slate. “I will have someone look into it and see if it needs any repairs. It will certainly need cleaning.”

“He will prefer to do it himself,” Holly said wryly. “In fact, if you could have someone show me, I could take a look at it and we can make the decision sooner, rather than wait until someone has expended the energy to put it into good repair.”

“Let us go now, if you have the time,” Lindir said, motioning to one of the elves hovering in the adjacent hallway. The elf stepped forward and took the slate and chalk Lindir offered him before turning and heading back towards the working areas of the Last Homely House. “I would do well with the fresh air, and you will be able to give your opinion and that of Kreacher.”

They walked all the way out to the stables, and turned north to walk along the pastures until they reached a small cottage, frumpy when compared to the buildings in Imladris, but an absolute masterpiece in comparison to the farmhouse they were leaving behind in Bree. There was a sheep shed nearby, and she hopped the fence to look at it.

“It seems to have weathered well,” she informed Lindir, who was waiting for her at the cottage door. “The loft will have to be filled, but if you point me to a hayfield, I can manage that in a week.”

“We see few truly inclement days, but it never hurts to be cautious,” Lindir agreed, giving the door a gentle shove. “As you can see, there is a well here, outside of the livestock pens, for clean water, and a stream runs through the sheepfold for their water as well. The chimney looks to be in good repair…”

Holly ignored his voice trailing off as she climbed up the side of the cottage to the chimney and peered down the shaft. “Looks like a bird’s nested in here, and it needs a good cleaning, but it seems sound. Kreacher can easily manage both of those, and any minor repairs.” Letting go of the chimney, she carefully climbed up the slate roof and straddled the peak so that she could investigate both sides. “Roof looks solid, though the first rain will test that.”

Sliding down, she landed in a crouch and tumbled forward, letting the momentum elapse before she stood up. Joining Lindir in the doorway, she ignored his rolled eyes before stepping into the cottage proper.

It had a single room on the first floor, and a spacious loft above, based on the ladder she saw against the near wall. There was no furniture left inside, but the hearth and oven looked to be solid and in good repair. She could easily see the large floor loom and their spinning wheels fitting in the main room, even if it meant that the kitchen table would be pressed up against the front wall so Kreacher could use it to prepare food while still remaining close to the hearth and the oven. There would be little room for guests, but she didn’t expect to have any so it didn’t matter.

Climbing the ladder into the loft, she carefully tested the floorboards for soundness before looking around. It would just fit her bed and wardrobe, and she could hang a curtain in the corner to give Kreacher his own space.

It wasn’t until she had thought about giving them separate rooms in the loft that Holly realized she was planning on moving into the cottage as well.

“Kreacher?” she called softly, and the house elf appeared after a moment, looking around before nodding in approval.

“This will do, Kreacher thinks.”

“There’s the room downstairs too,” she told him, and led the way down the stairs. “Kreacher, this is Lindir, who makes the arrangements for Lord Elrond’s household. Lindir, this is Kreacher.”

The elf and the house elf eyed each other for a long moment before Kreacher glanced around the main room and nodded again. “Kreacher will have this place ready before dinner.”

“Let me show you the sheepfold outside, and the well, and then I’ll let you get settled,” Holly agreed.

* * *

The next morning, Holly awoke in her bed, tucked under the eaves of the small cottage and listened to the rain falling softly on the roof overhead. Downstairs, she could hear the sound of Kreacher cooking breakfast, and she knew she ought to get up, but for a moment, everything felt right in the world.

When she climbed down the ladder, Kreacher nodded at her before she picked up the water pail and pulled on her cloak. The sheep were all inside their shed, grazing contentedly at the mangers she had filled the night before from the stock of hay at the stables. Apparently they had far more than they needed, even after reducing their cutting, and she was welcome to whatever she and her sheep needed. Returning to Kreacher with the water, she shucked her boots and cloak at the door and left the water by the hearth to warm before she washed.

Lindir had told her she was welcome to stay in the Last Homely House for as long as she was in residence, but after she had helped Kreacher unpack, Holly had moved her things as quickly as she could. As small as the cottage may have seemed, compared to the expanse of the Last Homely House, Holly much preferred the closer quarters, even if she and Kreacher had to cook their own food and give up the private bath.

“Mistress said she was hoping for a slow day so that she could get some work done,” Kreacher commented as he put a plate in front of her place at the table. “Mistress got what she was hoping for.”

“I certainly will be able to take inventory of what I have,” she agreed, picking up her fork and starting in on her breakfast. “Will you help me once you’ve cleaned up?”

Kreacher gave her an affronted look, and Holly hid her smile behind the cup of tea she had just picked up.

Legolas, Elladan, and Elrohir found her cottage a little after noon, and she was sitting amidst piles of wool, thread, and yarn, with Kreacher making notes in a journal. She was telling Kreacher the number of uncarded fleeces they had as they rapped on her door. “Come in, but leave your boots and cloaks by the door!”

There was a shuffle as the trio awkwardly removed boots and hung their cloaks, which was something usually only done in the privacy of one’s bedchamber, but she refused to chance getting her materials muddy. Legolas tiptoed around a pile of bundled fleeces while the twins took a seat on the bench at the table.

“We had heard you’d left Father’s house, but it took us a bit to track down Lindir and find out where you went,” Elrohir informed her as she started counting the rovings laid out around her. “But we were wondering if you were interested in a bit of hunting tomorrow if the weather clears.”

“Perhaps,” she replied distractedly, keeping her count only through long practice. “I need to get out and see what dyes I might be able to find before the fall ends. There might be colors I can’t get from Bree-Land and I might as well take advantage of them.”

Elladan shrugged. “Linnriel would probably know who to talk to about that,” he commented, nudging one of the fleece bundles with his foot. “I thought you were going south with the Ring?”

“I am,” Holly said after dictating the final count of rovings to Kreacher and starting in on counting the spools of thread. “But I also want to make what I can and imbue it with magic, let alone what I leave behind for Kreacher while I’m gone.”

“Kreacher is perfectly capable of giving wool colors,” the elf muttered as he looked over their inventory notes. “And Kreacher told mistress that she ought to pick up colors in Bree, but she found nasty magic like that which killed Master Regulus.”

Her guests looked curious, but Holly simply set down the last spool of thread, finely spun so that she could use it for weaving, told Kreacher the count, and jumped over a pile of rovings, one of the elves’ boots, and up onto the ladder. From her wardrobe, she withdrew a pair of socks, and her winter gear.

“I made these,” she said, handing the socks to Legolas, her hat and gloves to Elladan, and her winter cloak to Elrohir. “They’ve all been imbued with protections against chill, admonishments to keep body heat close to a person, water resistance...everything I could think of for cold and inclement weather. If we set off any time before spring, we will need them, and I doubt the hobbits brought any cold weather gear.”

“So you’ll just...knit socks for the company?”

“As many as I can,” Holly said firmly, knowing that Elrohir’s question had been in jest, but she was absolutely serious. “I hope to make as many things as I can that might protect us or make our journey easier, though it becomes a matter of time. I will have to start with the cloaks as soon as I can, since they will have to be dyed after they’re woven, and while I’m weaving Kreacher can dye the wool for socks.”

“Are you planning on becoming a hermit?” Legolas asked, but there was no scorn in his voice and he gently examined the socks she had handed him. “Lord Elrond said that we must wait for preparations to be complete, but he intends that we set off before the first of the year. That is not much time for a company of ten.”

“I should have what I need,” Holly mused, mentally inventorying her wardrobe, “and I will ask, before I begin, to see what the other members may be in need of. But the hobbits will need the basics at the very least, so that is a start.”

“I would welcome a pair of socks, if you would knit them,” Legolas said, handing the pair he was holding to Elrohir in exchange for the cloak. “And perhaps a cloak, if the weaving is not too much difficulty.”

“The weaving is one of the more straightforward parts.” Turning away from the elves, she started counting the yarn she had spun for knitting. “But I would be happy to, if you are certain you wish them.”

“As far as we know, the company will number ten,” Elladan said seriously, plucking the hat and gloves from his brother’s hands and dropping the socks in his lap. “Legolas for the  _ Eldar _ , Gimli son of Gloin for Durin’s Folk, Estel, Boromir, and yourself for the  _ Edain _ , all four of the hobbits who came to Imladris with you, and of course, Mithrandir.”

“That’s quite the company.” He was now slipping his hands into her gloves and she hoped that he wouldn’t stretch them out. “I shall be busy.”

“Father said that he wishes to speak with you in his library at your convenience.” Elrohir rolled his eyes and tugged the glove off his brother’s hand and tossed it to Legolas, who passed over the cloak. “I think he wished to speak with you about your magic.”

“Gandalf probably wishes the same,” Holly muttered under her breath before calling out the final count to Kreacher. Picking up the baskets she had brought down from the North Downs when she had moved to Bree, she began sorting her materials into them and arranging them how she wished. In a louder voice, she asked: “Do you think that Linnriel would manage to get me the hobbits’ measurements?”

“We will go hunting when the weather next clears, if we are in the valley” Elladan said firmly over Elrohir’s groan of despair. “On that morning we will come for you, and you will eat at my father’s table that night, giving you time to speak with him and others of his household as needed. I am sure that the company will be in residence at the time, so you may ask them whatever questions you may have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Na lû e-govaned vîn: Until next we meet (Sindarin)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Only the gravest news travels on swift wings; all other news waits for a rider this far south."

**Chapter Six:**

“So this is where you have been hiding,” a voice said from below her. “I had heard that you had left the guest quarters, but it has been many years since anyone has made their home this far from the house of Elrond.”

Holly glanced down to see Aragorn looking up at her, mouth quirked in a grin. “I have not been hiding, my lord,” she retorted, continuing her work. “The Prince of the Woodland Realms has oft come to carry me into the woods so that my bow will match his own skill as we bring in game for the winter months. And I ride out on patrol from time to time.”

“And yet today you’re knitting on your rooftop?”

“It’s lovely weather and it would be a shame to waste the sunlight,” she said primly, fingers working independent of her attention, something she had mastered after many mistakes and dropped stitches. “Why wouldn’t I be knitting on my rooftop?”

“I have had news from the north that I thought you might hear and offer council on,” Aragorn said after a pause that clearly stated he did not know what the appropriate response was to her question.  _ Pity, it would have been fun watching Luna twist him in knots _ . “I would prefer to inform both you and the other interested parties at the same time.”

“And you came all the way out here to summon me to a meeting?” Holly raised an eyebrow even as she rolled the half finished sock around her needles and bound it there by wrapping the yarn around it a few times. As she slipped the bundle into her belt pouch, she had to hold back a snicker at the bewildered look on Aragorn’s face as he tried to make sense of how her small belt pouch could hold such a large bundle.

“I got the message at the stables,” he offered in explanation. “One of the grooms would have carried my message to you, but I offered to bring it myself, and see where I might find you in an emergency.”

“It’s expanded,” she said, landing on her feet after sliding down the slope of the roof. At his puzzled look, Holly gestured to her belt pouch. “I made it out of cloth that I had enchanted to make things both lightweight and expanded, and cemented the process by embroidering the appropriate runic arrays. I intend to offer one to each of our fellowship.”

Seeing that he didn’t know what to make of her statement, Holly poked her head into the cottage. “Kreacher, I’m going off to a meeting. Come find me if you need anything urgently; I’ll let you know if anything significant has changed.”

The house elf shooed her away, and Holly fell into step alongside Aragorn as they headed for the Last Homely House, the focal point of the valley. As much as Imladris was a functioning community, it was all centered around the house of Elrond, much as kingdoms and capitals were clustered around a palace. Much of the day to day organization of the community as a whole passed through the hands of Lindir and Erestor at some level; internal matters of the household through Lindir, and matters of the community and the outside world through Erestor. It was almost comforting, how orderly everything was, after the ragtag system of order the lands north of Bree had attempted to enforce.

“Who brought the message?” she asked as they made their way through the valley.

His grin was grim as he lifted a hand briefly to acknowledge the greeting of an elf that passed them, heading towards the training yards. “A message bird came through the relay system between Esteldin and Imladris, marked for my eyes only. Only the gravest news travels on swift wings; all other news waits for a rider this far south. The Road is no longer as safe as it once was; I do not wish to needlessly risk my people for something that might be carried by a trained falcon if it is truly urgent.”

“If only such a system was put in place between Esteldin and Tinnudir.” Holly knew the advantage of trained messenger birds; she still thought fondly of Hedwig. But birds here were not so easily trained as post owls, nor were they protected from other predators or enemy arrows and stones.

“It is difficult for us to maintain flocks, and more difficult yet to train the birds,” Aragorn answered, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the rush of water as they crossed one of the many footbridges in the valley. “What messages can be sent with human rider, we send, leaving the birds to carry only the critical messages that go such distances as between Esteldin and Imladris. And if they flew too often, their routes might be marked, and we would lose more birds to enemy arrows than we could afford, since not even the most intelligent falcon can avoid an arrow it did not see.”

“So, the message is received in the stables?” She had known all that he’d said, having had that conversation with Halbarad early in her acquaintance with the  _ dunedain _ of Esteldin. But she hadn’t known that there was a relay to Imladris, though emergency had occasionally prompted a bid between Tinnudir and Esteldin. More often than not, only those sent alone to distant, dangerous postings were entrusted with a falcon or other winged messenger.

“The mews is behind the stables, set enough away that the birds have a quiet place to rest, but close enough to monitor for new arrivals.”

As they entered the central courtyard of the Last Homely House, Aragorn veered towards the stairs, and Holly tamped down her instinctive response. They were heading to Elrond’s library then, and she had to remind herself that the place offered her no harm, nor did its occupants. The alcove in which Elrond was oft found reminded her of the headmaster’s office, which did not help her nerves when she was discussing her past and current abilities with Elrond and Gandalf.

Unsurprisingly, both were already present, with Erestor, Lindir, and Glorfindel arriving shortly after Aragorn and herself. The curtains across the alcove entrance were drawn, and Holly turned to Aragorn, who was carefully unfolding several pages that he had pulled from his belt pouch.

“I received an urgent message from Esteldin today, written by Daervunn, acting in Halbarad’s stead. Halbarad is attending to filling our empty places in Bree-Land at the moment, according to Daervunn. But he claims to have received a falcon at Esteldin, one that we had long marked as lost. And it bore...tidings of a nature I have not yet decided.” Aragorn looked torn as he glanced down at the pages in his hands, and she wondered what could provoke such a reaction in him.

“As several of you are aware, many years ago, one of my captains, a man named Golodir, took his company north into Angmar to investigate what he believed were stirrings of fell things in Carn Dum. He acted against my orders, for we had not the numbers nor the strength to risk a company in such a barren and fell land. His entire company was deemed lost, yet one of the falcons that they bore with them returned to Esteldin with a message, written by a man who claims to be one of the men who was thought lost with Golodir and his company.”

Holly felt her fingers tightening around the edge of Elrond’s desk as she braced herself. “What is the man’s name?”

“Corunir,” Aragorn said, glancing at her. “Did you know him?”

“My lord,” she murmured, the words falling automatically from numb lips as she herself fell back into patterns she had learned when she first swore herself to the Rangers, “when I woke after my...accident, I found my way to the tents of the Trév Gállorg in Aughaire. They took me in, adopted me as one of their own. I was there when Golodir and his company first marched through the Ram Duath, and I was in Aughaire when they challenged the Rammas Deluon. Corunir was one of their number, and we did not find his body among the dead when we sent messengers to Malenhad to seek for news of what had transpired. It is...not impossible that if some of Golodir’s company survived, Corunir was among them.”

Vaguely, she was aware of Glorfindel moving closer to her, as if to offer support, but she waved him off, straightening slightly. The news had taken her by surprise, but it could not topple her. She had long grieved the loss of her companions, and the man she had taken to bed as a lover, and that grief had not broken her then. It would not break her now.

“But the company was lost long before you could have been born?” Erestor asked, glancing at her. “If you forgive my saying so.”

“I am...older than I appear,” she managed wryly, feeling some of the warmth from the nearby fire seeping back into her bones. “There is nothing to forgive; my lack of visible aging has bewildered many over the long years of my life. I am...somewhere over eighty-five, though I have stopped minding the years with any regularity, so it is impossible to fully mark the years of my life.”

“Perhaps we shall just count you as Aragorn’s peer, and leave it at that,” Elrond said smoothly. “Aragorn, what do you feel we ought to do?”

“Thuri, is there anything you can share about the current state of affairs in the north that might be helpful?” Aragorn said, and Holly thought hard.

“Donnvail is completely lost to the Free Peoples,” she said shortly. “There is something fell and foul in the lands north and east of the Ram Duath, and it is  _ active _ . Before I went south to Esteldin, I had need of a way to dampen the amount of magic I felt because the rancidity of it did me more harm than good. Aughaire is safe, so long as the Trév Gállorg are not overrun, but they are suspicious of outsiders and do not suffer those who they believe may do them harm.”

“And Golodir’s company? What are the honest chances of survival?”

She turned to Elrond, and motioned towards a sheet of parchment on his desk. He offered it and a quill to her readily, and sketched a rough map, based on her memory of one she had once seen in Esteldin, and her own experiences.

“This is Aughaire,” she said, marking the placement of her first home in Middle Earth with an  _ adew _ , the Sindarin version of the letter ‘a’ she had learned what felt like a lifetime ago. Learning three new languages, and their associated scripts, had been irritating at first, but it had always been easy for her to pick up languages when she puts her mind to it. “Bastion of the Trév Gállorg. They hunt in the lands beyond, but this camp here marks the end of the ground in which they can pass safely, though its safety is questionable from what news I last heard. Beyond that camp are the lands controlled by the Trév Duvárdain, and in the shadow of the gates of Carn Dum is Donnvail. To the east is Malenhad, and old fortresses that I do not doubt are currently inhabited by goblins or worse. This here is where the Rammas Deluon lies. I do not know what sorcery powers it, but it appeared when Golodir and his company tried to march across Malenhad, and now no person has crossed it and lived.”

“You said that there were bodies,” Gandalf asked, and she glanced over to find him studying the map. “In what state were they in?”

“They were withered.” It was something they had never been able to suss out, the exact cause of death for those that they had found. “There were no marks on the bodies that would indicate they met armed resistance, so it is unlikely that the company was set upon and those that were not killed captured by their foes. None of them showed any signs of illness, and none of those that bore away the bodies for a proper burial were ill afterwards, which rules disease out.”

“We only found about half the company,” Holly explained, turning back to Aragorn. “Corunir, as I said, was not among the dead, and neither was Golodir and most of his command structure. As a precaution, we abandoned anything of strategic value after we had discovered their disappearance, but no Angmarim forces ever attempted to act against us, which suggests that they did not receive information from the missing members of the company.” Tapping the quill point lightly against the desk, she thought back to his initial question. “Given that they’ve spent about thirty years in what’s essentially occupied territory, their heritage as  _ dunedain _ , the possibility that they might have found and merged with other pockets of resistance if they exist...I’d say it’s almost a fifty percent chance of survival that at least a few of the company survived. Probably thirty or forty at the worst. Golodir picked his men well.”

“Are there any others among the Rangers that have your knowledge of Angmar?” Glorfindel asked, and she knew what might be asked of her, had known it ever since her mind had cleared from the initial shock.

“Daervunn and Halbarad took my initial debriefs, and I was questioned by Lady Gilraen, but after I left there was no other who they wished to risk in the North. They would likely know the most, though neither of them has operated further north than possibly Aughaire, though I don’t know if either of them even has gone that far. Besides, Halbarad, at least, is needed in Esteldin.”

Swallowing hard, she took a deep breath and knelt before Aragorn, her head bowed. “If you order me, my lord, I will leave the matter of the Ring to you and those Lord Elrond has chosen and seek what news there is of Golodir’s company. But I beg you, please, let me see the matter of the Ring through to its destruction.”

She had not begged before Voldemort. Had not begged in Donnvail. But she would beg for this, for the chance to see with certainty the ring destroyed, no more horcruxes tethering evil to this world. Holly knew all too well the costs of the ring, and would not let it persist to stir evil in generations to come.

“I think, perhaps, that I may have a solution,” Elrond inserted carefully after a long silence. “Estel, there are several individuals that I have trusted to help with a number of tasks over the years. If you give me a few days, I will gather them from their current tasks and send them north, to Esteldin, where they can meet with Daervunn and learn more before venturing north.”

Holly didn’t dare raise her head, leaving it bowed as she knelt before Aragorn, hardly breathing. She could feel a phantom itching along her arms, a sure sign that she was at a pivot point, something she had realized only after a great deal of self-reflection and some time spent with some interesting Mongolian shamans. Finally, he spoke.

“Send out your messages,” he said, and Holly began to breathe again. “Thuri will remain with the company, for I believe we all agree that her expertise may be valuable in matters of the Ring. I trust that you will make yourself available to Elrond as needed to help prepare those he sends north?”

“If it is what my lords wish,” she said, keeping a tight rein on her emotions, “I would ask that my lord Elrond suffer my further presence in his sanctum so that I might write down all I know of Angmar and the dealings of the north, so that those who seek out Golodir’s company need not be dependent on my ability to be present during their briefings.”

“That would be helpful,” Elrond said after a moment’s pause. “Erestor, you will show Thuri where she might work in peace, and see that she has what materials she might need?”

“Parchment, a quill, and ink ought to suffice,” Holly murmured, rising to her feet and sinking into a deep curtsy, attempting to include both Elrond and Aragorn in the gesture. “And if my lord Elrond has maps of Angmar that might be spared, I can annotate them, since I am not a very good artist.”

* * *

Gandalf watched the curtains sweep shut as Erestor led Thuri out into the main part of the library and wished that Elrond had not banned the usage of pipes among the books. He had found that from time to time, sitting back and smoking his pipe allowed him to sort through his thoughts and process things that he’d missed initially.

Thuri was a conundrum. Ever since the woman had arrived in Rivendell, calling herself a  _ witch _ , like the hillmen and women who all too often walked the path of Morgoth and Sauron, he had been unsettled. In his many years and long travels he had seen several of those that claimed to wield sorcery, but she did not resemble them. She took no staff, no implement of magic. She warned against the Ring, in such strident terms it was impossible to believe her capable of falling prey to its lure. The woman offered her magic, or rather the items created with it, freely in a way he had never seen another magic user do.

But she controlled an immense power. When he had seen her weaving, he could feel it around her, tightly wrapped and answering wholly to her call, but it was there. And as she attended Frodo that night, he had felt a touch of  _ other _ that he usually only could feel when the Lady Galadriel was exercising her own power.

When he had asked what she had studied, her response had shaken him.

_ Death _ .

To this day, even after several conversations with her, and conversations with others who had spoken with her, he could not tell what she meant by that.

Aragorn looked shaken. “I did not realize she felt so strongly about our quest,” he said into the silence. “When she approached me in Bree, she did not ask for permission, but insisted on accompanying us, even if I sent her north for further proof of her identity. Halbarad, in the letter she bore back, stated that she had been stalwart in her commitment to our cause and had proven her worth many times over. If her actions just now did not convince me that to remove her from the quest would be disastrous, I do not know what it would take.”

“Who knew about her longevity?” Elrond said, glancing around the room. “I had suspected that she was using some magic to mask her appearance, but I did not suspect that her age was anywhere close to that of Estel’s.”

“I knew that she had known Golodir’s company, but not at what age she had met them,” Glorfindel admitted. “We spoke of it the night of the council, when she agreed to join the company bearing the ring into the east. She very much reminds me of the Lady Artanis at times, though she does not hold herself apart as strongly.”

“When you were speaking with her, she spoke of a war,” Aragorn noted, sitting in one of the chairs scattered around the alcove. “A war in which she fought in, despite being counted as a child.”

“She has mentioned this war to us,” Gandalf agreed, remembering one of their conversations. “I believe I make her uneasy at times, which suggests I remind her of one of the combatants.”

“‘ _ The master of my school ensured that I was raised as a lamb for slaughter _ ’” Glorfindel quoted. “She seems at ease with you when discussing trivial things, but when you begin to discuss the war, she becomes wary.” 

When Gandalf thought about it, he saw what the elf had observed. It likely explained some of her more brusque departures from their discussions, and her reluctance to exploring the possibility of a staff, even if the lack of one hindered her. “Did she say anything else when she spoke with you, Glorfindel?”

“She does not wish for renown,” the elf said after a moment. “Thuri told me that she had been content to be a mere soldier, and did not relish the reverence that would follow if the company is successful in its quest. It seemed to me as if she treated it as a matter of duty, one that she would see through. But she spoke also of prophecy and briefly said that her people had made a study of it, and though she was not talented in it, she could feel the stirrings of fate from time to time.”

“Curious,” Elrond said after a long moment in which they mulled the strange conundrum the woman presented. “If I did not risk another outburst of temper, much as we saw expressed at the council, I would greatly desire to learn more of this war she fought in.”

“From what I overheard as I approached, she spoke of the duty of fighting it and ending it being abdicated from the fathers and forefathers of her generation,” Aragorn added with a shrug. “And that their sacrifices seemed to ultimately be in vain. I do not think her tale is a happy one.”

* * *

“What do you wish to learn of me now?” Holly asked wryly as she ushered Glorfindel to a seat by the hearth. Kreacher was busy spinning in the corner by her loom, but she had perched herself in the rocking chair she’d purloined from the valley’s stores with Lindir’s permission and settled in with her knitting for the night. Even with the unplanned visitor, she intended to get substantial progress done.

She was no fool; it was easy enough to determine that her outburst and uncharacteristic behavior that afternoon during the meeting to discuss the affairs of Angmar had drawn attention from those present. It only remained to be seen what in particular they wished to know.

“Perhaps I simply wish to escape from an endless stream of reports and other reminders of the ever-present conflict?” the elf lord asked, toasting his feet by the fire. It had begun to snow lightly as night fell, not more than it would take to dust the ground, but enough to remind them all that winter was moving in to settle. “But I would hear a story, if you are willing to offer one. The fault of many years is that eventually you run out of new stories when you live among the same company for centuries. And the tales grow dreary in their telling when they are tales you have lived.”

“A tale?” Holly asked with a chuckle as she rocked, her hands busy with their work. “What kind of tale? One for children, or one that happened?”

“Can a tale not be both?”

Humming in response, Holly thought through her memories and remembered one that she had told Teddy every night before he fell asleep for several months. “Once upon a time, there were four young boys that had left their homes to come to a school of great knowledge. Two of the boys were the closest to young princes that the school had; handsome, from respected families, and well-skilled in their chosen craft. One boy was modestly talented, with a mother who loved him and was in reasonable standing in the community. And the last boy bore a heavy burden, but desperately sought to learn, even though if people knew the burden he bore, he would be immediately sent away.”

“These boys became quick friends. One of the young princes went against his family’s decrees in befriending the others, and he railed against their ways, not letting their scorn and disapproval beat him down and turn him away from his friendships. Among his friends, the first boy found a true family, which is what he desired most.”

“The second prince found brothers, but also careless cruelty and malice out of the desire for amusement at the expense of others, particularly one boy who attempted to court the same fair maiden that the prince had fallen desperately in love with. With her help, he found kindness and chivalry, thought perhaps too late to rectify some of his previous cruelty. But at heart he was a good man, and an honorable one.”

“Our third boy, the smallest of the group, found courage, but only as a reflection, not for himself. With his friends he found strength, but when he found himself standing alone, he could not summon the same strength.” She had wrestled long and hard about how to tell this part of the story, and she knew that most of the others didn’t really understand why she kept Wormtail in the stories she told Teddy, but Holly knew it was important.

“And the last boy found acceptance where he expected scorn, kindness where he feared pity, and he grew into himself and thrived, but the acceptance was always tainted by the fear.  _ What if they find out about my curse? What if they are just like the others in the end? What if they leave me? _ ”

“And so the four boys grew into men, the other three finding out about the curse the fourth bore and learning to help him bear it so that the burden did not seem so heavy. But there was darkness all around, and the boys soon grew old enough to leave the school and go out into the world, where they set themselves against the darkness.”

She paused in her telling, but her rocking went on and her hands did not stop their motion. Glorfindel sat in silence for a long moment, and then looked up at her. “And what happened to the boys in their stand against the darkness?”

“It is a sad tale,” Holly warned softly. “Not one that encourages, in times like these.”

“There are sad endings to many tales,” Glorfindel countered gently. “But that does not make them worth telling, even in the darkness.”

“The fourth boy, now a man, found the weight of his curse pressing down around him,” Holly murmured, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the flames, the creak of her chair, the whir of Kreacher’s spinning wheel. “He found himself walking among those who were cursed like him, separated from his brothers by orders from the man who had accepted him into the school, despite his curse. He found his faith in his brothers’ love and acceptance wavering as the fear grew stronger, but he held true to the cause.”

“Our two young princes set themselves against the dark, shining as beacons with their youth and their courage. Along with many of their friends, and the fair maiden who our first prince had finally won the hand of, they pushed back against the darkness, even if the darkness wore the faces of the second prince’s family, who had disowned him for choosing the light.”

“But the third boy found his courage faltering, his faith in his brothers not strong enough to overcome the fear, and at a crucial moment, when a single master stroke might have ended the war in favor of the darkness, he gave into that fear. He sought out the master in the darkness and he told him where the first prince was hiding with the fair maiden, who had borne a child. And so, the master in the darkness went to the house where the prince was hiding, and slew both the prince and the fair maiden, but he could not touch the child, for the death of a mother for her child was powerful magic, and he disappeared.”

“The second prince, overcome with grief, knew who the traitor must have been, and pursued the third boy, who knew well what would happen once his betrayal was discovered. So he laid a trap for the second prince, and imprisoned him on an island which would destroy his soul. Frightened, as he would be for the rest of his days, the third boy fled into hiding, terrified of both light and dark.”

“And the cursed boy, now alone in the world with only his curse, scorned by all those who knew of it, found himself overcome with grief, and went away to scratch a living from whatever he could.”

The elf seemed to mull over the tale as she continued to rock. “What other stories do you have to share?”

“There once was a young prince, the second in line to inherit his family’s throne,” Holly began, seeing Kreacher’s ears perk up as he listened. “He was quiet, where his older brother was brash, and obedient, where his older brother would challenge their family. Eventually, after many conflicts, the older brother abdicated and left the kingdom, as he was simultaneously being cast out. And so, the second prince became the heir to the throne he never thought he would sit on.”

She told of the young prince’s struggle to follow his family’s ways, to be the better son. Holly told of his fall into darkness in the process, and of how he met his brother on the other side of battlefields.

“But for all of his family’s ways, the young prince was compassionate, and when the master in the darkness asked for the use of his family’s servant, only to return him nearly dead, the young prince resolved himself. He ordered the servant to tell him of the errand the master in the darkness had sent him on, and then ordered that he be taken to the same place.”

“In a cave by the dark, cold waters of the sea, the young prince stood on a small island surrounded by death. Taking up the goblet of poison, he ordered his servant to steal the dark one’s greatest treasure, and to take it away and destroy it, leaving a replica in its place. With great sadness, for he could not disobey his master’s orders, the servant did as he was instructed, leaving his master to death, as the young prince had chosen.”

“His words lingered beyond death, in the form of a message left with the false treasure. ‘ _ I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal’ _ . Despite all of his brother’s accusations of cowardice, the second son who had never expected to be king, walked willingly to his own death in the hopes that he would someday help the one would would defeat the dark one.”

Kreacher sniffed audibly, and Holly knew that he was clutching the locket that he still wore under his tunic that had replaced the pillowcase after a long, fraught discussion about appropriate attire for a servant of the House of Black.

“Who were they to you?” Glorfindel asked quietly.

“One was the father of my godson, and one was my godfather. One was my predecessor, and one was my father. And one betrayed them but granted me a small mercy that cost his life.”

“Now that is quite a riddle!” the elf murmured. “The traitor is easily named as the third boy, the one who gave into fear, but that is one of five. That one is your predecessor but is not your father suggests that you bore a title of some sort, but not passed through your father. But there was only one child mentioned in either tale, and you spoke of both yourself and your godson?”

“My godson was born when I was seventeen.” Holly allowed the hint. “And I ended up inheriting a title because all other candidates of the main line were dead, allowing it to pass tenuously to a goddaughter who was named heir.”

“Then the second son, the prince who became heir, must be your predecessor,” Glorfindel said decisively. “The first prince could not be the father of your godson, for he fell in battle, and neither could the prince whose brother was your predecessor, for he was imprisoned. So the cursed man is the father to your godson. If the rank was inherited by a goddaughter named heir, then the prince who was imprisoned was your godfather, leaving the first prince to be your father.”

“My father and mother did die protecting me when I was a little over a year old,” she agreed with a nod. “Because of their deaths, we were granted ten years of peace before the darkness began to rise again.”

“Does that make Kreacher the servant in your second tale?” he asked kindly, glancing over at the elf.

“Kreacher was very attached to his master, and resented that he was not able to carry out his final orders.” The elf continued his spinning, but Holly could tell that he was scowling at the memory. “My companions and I were able to assist him, and Kreacher has been free of that burden for many years. We offered him whatever he wanted, but he chose to continue to serve the family that had produced his beloved master.”

“And what mercy did the traitor show you?”

“When he was about to kill me, I reminded him that I had once acted to save his life, and his hesitation at that moment killed him, as it activated a magical object that killed him despite our best efforts to stop it.” Sometimes she wondered what she would have done with Wormtail if he had survived, if she and Ron had been able to stop the silver hand from strangling him, but she had never come to a conclusive answer.

“And your godfather?” Glorfindel was curious, and Holly didn’t mind. Talking about them had long ceased to be excruciatingly painful. She had made the effort for Teddy, who deserved to know his father, and over time she had grown to accept Sirius’s loss, though it still ached to remember all that she had lost.

“He escaped from his imprisonment when I was thirteen, and died in battle two years later. I had been lured into a trap I should have avoided, and he came with the others to try and rescue me, even though he was ordered to stay in our safehouse. For a long time I blamed myself for his death.”

“What curse did the last man bear? You never said?”

“He was a shapechanger, but could not control it. During the full moon, he was fully lost to the animal, but on every other day he was as human as any of us. A good professor, he taught at the school for a year before he had to move on, and he was kind. But too many years alone had broken him, and he was always afraid that those that accepted him would turn on him. When he heard he was going to be a father, he was terrified that he would pass his curse onto the child.”

“And what happened to the child?”

“He became another war orphan,” Holly murmured, swallowing hard. She had resented Remus and Tonks for making the decision to both fight in the Battle of Hogwarts every time they missed a milestone in Teddy’s life. It should not have fallen to Andromeda and herself to raise their son when they had the choice to remain behind. “His parents were killed in the battle that ended the war. I helped his grandmother to raise him, and he grew to be a good man.”

“You came here, wishing to know more about my past,” Holly said after a long moment of silence. “About the war my people fought, and about my place in this one. I will not speak much of the war of my people, except for this: my people were overtaken by prejudice and fear that oft turned brother against brother as terms like  _ blood-traitor _ were bandied about, and our war was supposed to be the end of it, a new generation and era of tolerance and equality. And ten years later, I found myself looking at a society that had halved itself or worse in that conflict and yet had learned nothing and changed nothing, guaranteeing that the factors that had helped create the war would remain, festering underneath in the roots. I did not much care to discover that everything that I had sacrificed personally, and everything that I had seen sacrificed, was ultimately in vain.”

“As for my place in this war, I do not wish for one greater than that of a soldier. But once I learned that the Ring existed, I would not let it from my sight unless the lord I have sworn my fealty to ordered me away or I felt myself being pulled in another direction. I care not for glory and acclaim, but I will right the wrong that was done in the forging and retire to my life in the north.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twenty fifth of December dawned cold and grey.

The twenty fifth of December dawned cold and grey. Holly woke with the sun, as was her habit, but crawled back under the warm covers and pulled the blankets over her head. They were to leave at the onset of dusk and she had been riding patrol late the night before, her heart and mind restless at the outset of the quest that would take her further into lands she had never thought to see.

Kreacher woke her in the middle of the afternoon, and she carefully made her bed, tucking each blanket into order as if it was a solemn ritual. Elrohir and Elladan stopped by briefly before they rode out again; they would miss the company’s departure as they rode away on errands for their father even though they had only just returned. Finally, as the sun began to set, she shouldered her pack, making sure to balance it properly so that it would fatigue her as little as possible, and then she pulled her cloak around her, fastening it at the neck with the star broach Aragorn had given her to replace the one she had given up after need sent her south to Bree.

“Mistress is going now,” Kreacher said quietly from where he stood by the door. “What are Mistress’s orders?”

“Stay here, and take care of the sheep,” Holly said, swallowing hard. She had left Kreacher behind once, without a second thought, but this time it felt as heartrending as it had been to leave Aughaire for Esteldin. “If that is not enough, you may ask Lindir if there are tasks you can do elsewhere in the valley. While I am away, you may listen to him as you would listen to a member of the House of Black, though I remain your mistress.”

“If Imladris is to be abandoned,” taking a deep breath, Holly listed out the contingencies that she had come up with to keep him safe, “then I wish you to take what is most important from this house and go with the survivors, listening to the Lord Elrond, his sons, Lindir, Glorfindel, or their designated successors and heirs. If there are no survivors, then you may seek me out, taking care that we do not alert unfriendly eyes to our presence during a reunion. And if I should fall in this war, you may choose whether you go to the Lord Elrond, his sons, Lindir, Glorfindel, or if you choose to serve with the  _ Dunedain _ under Halbarad, Daervunn, or their successors. That is my stated will; all of my possessions go to your next master or mistress, except for those we have previously discussed as needed to be destroyed upon my death.”

“Mistress will come back to Kreacher,” the elf said stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Else Kreacher will go to Mistress.”

“I survived one war, did I not?” Holly said lightly as she rested a hand on the door latch. “I will do my best to survive this one.”

* * *

She did not look back as she walked the valley paths towards the courtyard in front of the Last Homely House.

Many of the elves in the valley stopped to nod gravely at her as she passed, and she returned her regard. Most of them were in some way involved in the war effort, preparing to stand against the forces that would array themselves against the old north kingdom and the last refuges of the elves west of the Misty Mountains. She had met many of them during her stay, and had ridden and fought with several patrols after asking to be placed on the roster, so that she might learn some of the lands surrounding the valley. None of them had been willing to part with any sort of goodbye lingering between them, all of them knowing that the odds were high that they would not survive the war.

_ Until we meet again _ was the favored farewell these days, for it did not suggest a final sundering.

The rest of the company, and the chief members of Elrond’s house were assembling in the courtyard as she arrived, forming into small groups and pairs. She saw the Lady Arwen in the shadows, and after a moment, she noticed that Aragorn’s eyes, though he was in quiet conversation with Legolas and Erestor, often strayed to where she stood.

It became clear to her, as she watched the pair from a distance, what she had been missing in the subtext of many conversations. The only thing left in uncertainty was why they had not yet wed and ensured the line of kings would continue, given Aragorn’s presence on a potentially deadly battlefield.

“Her father is much like Thingol of old in that he does not wish to see his only daughter wed a man who will one day die,” Glorfindel said quietly as he came up beside her. “While he is not bound to retrieve a jewel from the dark power’s crown, my lord Elrond has declared that they should not be wed unless the line of Isildur is seated once more on its throne.”

“Then he shall have reason to succeed,” Holly murmured in reply, watching Arwen’s face fill with sorrow as Aragorn moved to stand near Gandalf as Elrond appeared from the interior of his house. “There is but one force in the world that can stand against honest love and be successful.”

“But we shall not speak of it this eve,” Glorfindel said gravely as Elrond began to address the company. “Though, as her foremother’s tale tells, not even that force may be strong enough.”

Listening to Elrond send off the company, Holly inclined her head gravely to the elf-lord she had grown to count as her friend over the months they had known each other. “ _ Mauya nin avánië _ , Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower.  _ Namárië _ .”

“ _ Mára mesta _ , Thuri,  _ Alámenë _ .”

* * *

Aragorn led them out of Rivendell, and up onto the high moor before taking the winding trail back down to the Ford of Bruinen. Holly hung back near the tail end of the fellowship with Legolas, moving easily despite the growing darkness. She had asked to be added to the scouting patrols during her time in Rivendell for the sole reason of familiarizing herself with the terrain. Some had been mounted, some had been on foot, but she felt reasonably confident of her ability to orient herself anywhere from the borders of the Shire in the west, to the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil on the southern border of Eregion, to Donnvail in the north, and the Misty Mountains in the east. 

After they crossed the river at the ford, Aragorn veered south and led them into the wilds of the Trollshaws. She noted that he was avoiding the main path that struck out to the south, though he was sticking to the less well-marked paths that ran parallel to it. It made sense; even though those that gathered at the main camp in the southeastern Trollshaws were friendly, the company should not be detected by anyone, friend or foe.

It took fourteen nights before she found herself on the ridge overlooking Eregion, watching the sun rise. Holly suspected that Aragorn had led them deep into the wilderness of the Trollshaws, taking detours to confuse any watchers, but they had left the comforting cover of the woodlands and would now face the clear, flat plains of Eregion, which the elves of old had claimed as their own and cleared, only for it to be abandoned after its destruction less than a thousand years from its founding.

Sauron had collaborated with the elves here, if the histories contained in the library of Elrond were correct, and here the rings of power, which were the root of the conflict they were currently embroiled in, were wrought. Holly had no reason to doubt the histories; given that it was highly probable their writers or witnesses yet dwelled in Imladris it would be easy to verify, and she herself could still feel the whisper of  _ other _ that had been so strong in Imladris. It was not so strong as to overwhelm her, but she could feel the sense of fading magic if she stood with her bare feet pressed against the cold, hard ground of Eregion.

It sang to her, when she listened in the way the shamans in the east had taught to her, a mournful song of loss and old wounds that never healed properly. The night she had camped here, alone on her return to Imladris as the rest of the patrols rode further south, she had called Kreacher to her and he had kept watch over her as she pressed herself to the ground and  _ listened _ .

The trees and grass and all the living things did not remember those who had once dwelt here. There was an echo of memory deep in the south, likely from trees that had not been felled in the intervening years, but otherwise there was no living thing that could remember a time when the land had been settled. No, the memory came from the stones that had been carefully laid, one upon the other, and such was the craftsmanship of the elves that the stones had been laid with more than just mortar and careful shaping. Even the crudest building had life breathed into it, and Holly suspected that, had the settlements not been destroyed, eventually something like Hogwarts might have been created.

“We shall rest here today, and I think we might risk a fire,” Gandalf said, much to the relief of the hobbits. Holly had hardened herself to long marches and short rations over the years since her year in exile as she ran from Death Eaters, but the hobbits were in the process of undergoing that hardening. They had complained but little though, which had made the journey far less wearisome than it might have been.

Most of the company settled in for a rest, but Holly watched as Aragorn stood out on the ridge and looked out over into the empty land below them. She looked longingly at the small fire the hobbits had started and were beginning to cook a better meal than they had accustomed themselves to over the long days in the wilderness, but when she had sworn herself to the Rangers, she had accepted the existence of the chieftain of the  _ Dunedain _ and known that there would be times where duty called her away from hearth and home. Sighing, she went to join him.

He did not look at her as she approached. “There is nothing here.”

“Only the stones recall when the Noldor settled here,” she replied just as quietly. “But you mean something else.”

“I have walked these lands before, and there was not such a lack of life as I see and hear before me now,” Aragorn murmured, shifting restlessly. “There is usually not a benign cause for birds to fall silent at dawn.”

Now that he mentioned it, there were no birds singing, no small animals moving about...it was eerie, now that she noted the lack. Merry interrupted, and Aragorn went on to explain his concerns to the rest of the company, causing Gandalf to give the order for silence. As Sam moved to take the first watch, Holly looked towards Aragorn for his orders, but he motioned for her to rest. Obediently, she wrapped herself in her blanket and lay down on her bedroll, but she kept her bow strung and her hand wrapped around the knife hilt under her pillow. If the enemy came calling, she would be ready.

* * *

The enemy did not come for them that day, but the dark birds wheeling and circling overhead were disconcerting. She did not complain when they packed up and moved again, simply drawing her cloak around her tightly and moving on, keeping to the tail end of the company with Legolas as Aragorn led them towards the Redhorn Gate.

She had walked in on Aragorn arguing with Gandalf before they left Rivendell, the man and the  _ Istar _ pouring over the maps she had come to view herself, and she knew that Gandalf had misgivings about their path through the mountains. But the Gap of Rohan, though less naturally treacherous, brought them far too close to Orthanc, and Saruman, for anyone’s comfort.

At the foot of the Redhorn Gate, they stopped once more, and Holly watched as Aragorn and Gandalf debated again, and then carefully wrapped her unstrung bow in leather. There was snow in the pass, and it would do ill things to her bow if it sat exposed for too long. Strapping it across her back, she readjusted her haversack and helped the others gather wood, as Boromir had suggested. And then they climbed up into the mountains.

The wind was bitingly cold, slipping around the corners of her cloak and under her cuffs and hems to snake up and chill her down to the bone. Even the warming charms that she’d woven and stitched into them couldn’t keep it at bay, and she despaired for the hobbits. None of them had consented to shoes, or even socks, preferring to journey with only their feet. 

They continued to press on, pushing forward though the weather was fast devolving into an all-out blizzard. Holly could remember few storms as bad as this, if any, and even she was struggling to push forward through the snow. And there was an ill-feeling on the wind that she did not like. It felt a bit like listening to the locket horcrux, and that chilled her more than the wind could hope to.

“We cannot go further tonight,” Boromir said, as they huddled in the poor shelter of the cliff face. The others were soon drawn into debate and conversation, but Holly knelt down, mindful to keep within arms reach of one of the others, and tugged off her glove, thrusting her hand deep into the snow, seeking out the source of the storm, and the malice on the wind.

To her dismay, she found it older, and stronger, than she could even begin to perceive. This might very well be a storm wished for by the Enemy, but it was brought about by the will of the mountain, and there was nothing she could do in the face of it. She doubted Gandalf could do anything for it either. 

“This will be the death of the halflings,” Boromir was saying as she came back to herself, hand numb with cold and heart chilled by the implications of what she had felt. The man had plucked Frodo from a snowdrift, and the other hobbits were not much better. “It is useless to sit here until the snow goes over our heads. We must do something to save ourselves.”

“Where is Thuri?” Aragorn asked, and she rose, her cold muscles complaining about the movement. 

“I am here,” she said, above the shriek of the wind. “And I agree with Boromir. We will not overcome this storm.”

“Here,” Legolas said, passing her a small flask. “Just a mouthful, Gandalf says.”

She recognized it as the same potion that Glorfindel had offered them, and it put a shred of warmth back in her bones. As Holly capped it and returned the flask to Gandalf, she found the others starting to arrange the wood they’d brought so that they might risk a fire. But nothing they could do, no trick of woodcraft or even the simple application of flint and tinder could bring a light to the fire.

“Should I try?” Holly asked as Gandalf looked at the pile of firewood gravely. He glanced at her, and she wiggled her fingers to show that she meant to try using her magic on the fire. When he nodded after a moment’s thought, she knelt next to the wood and tugged off her gloves again, cupping her hands in the shelter of her body.

When she was this cold, it was hard to remember fire. To call it to her, when the wind was whipping around her, taunting her with whispers she could half-hear, what she heard more frightening by being only half-heard. But she dug down deep, remembered anger, because that was an easy starting point. Remembered how she had faced down Boromir and the Council of Elrond, and the fury and the fear that sent sparks flying from her fingertips. Thought of her desperate attempt to force back the Nazgul when they stood against them at the Ford of Bruinen. The flame in her hands had quickened, and she lowered it into the wood, feeling it try to catch and grow, but it had an uphill fight.

So she poured more into it, pushing back against the cold and the wind, remembering the nights in Rivendell with Kreacher, working in peace beside their hearthfire. Remembering the warmth of the natural hot springs in Rivendell. Of nights in the Hall of Fire, listening to the tales and the songs.

It caught, and she fed it further.

Nights in the  _ Pony _ , nights in Tinnudir when the moon shone bright and the shadows of Angmar seemed not to stretch out as far and there were songs and stories shared around the fires on the shore. Of similar nights in Esteldin, where she whirled through the steps of dances she’d learned alongside lessons in more martial disciplines. Of the night when she was truly accepted into the Trév Gállorg, and how the bonfires had burned and the drums had beaten and she had knelt and pledged her oath to the tribe that had taken her in.

The memories came faster and easier, reaching further and further back. A night in a field with Teddy, a man grown and laughing. Andromeda and Teddy, gathered around a Christmas tree. Ron and Hermione and their children. Warm days at the Burrow.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and knew she needed to draw back, or risk losing herself and expending too much energy. Already the cold was rushing back in to settle in her bones as she rocked back on her heels, but she let it in, hiding how lightheaded she felt from the amount of magic she poured into the fire that was burning doggedly against the chill. Everyone clustered close around it, and Holly rose and leaned against Pebbles, who had been brought along as packhorse, having bonded with Sam as they journeyed. He turned, and lipped at her cloak lightly, before lowering his head and bracing against the wind.

“ _ Witchcraft _ ,” Boromir hissed, looking taken aback as he stared at her with wide eyes. 

“And if it had been my work, we might as well have written the signs of our presence so broadly that anyone from Rivendell to the mouth of the Anduin would have picked them out,” Gandalf said sharply. “That Thuri was able to light a fire without resorting to such measures ought to be a cause for rejoicing, not for fear.”

“Is she like you then, a wizard?”

“The proper term is  _ witch _ ,” Holly muttered under the wail of the wind, but Gandalf answered for the company.

“She is exactly what she is. She is not like me, but she is not unlike me. And she is a welcome addition to this company.” Gandalf’s voice was firm. “And now, we ought to get what rest we might get, while the fire burns.”

* * *

It was an exhausted company that trudged down the mountain path as the sun rose.

Holly had recovered, mostly, from the amount of magic she had forced into the fire, but she was perfectly happy to remain with the hobbits as Boromir and Aragorn made a path. When it had been broken, she trudged alongside Pebbles, her hand on the horse’s headstall as Gimli perched warily on top of the baggage. The men seemed unwearying as they trekked back and forth, bearing the hobbits as they went, but eventually they were out of the drifts formed by the storm and trudging wearily down the mountain.

It irked Holly, to back down against the mountain and its storms, but she knew better than to pick a battle she could not win. Perhaps if she still bore a wand, and went with others like her, she might force a path through, but not with her companions, and not with the limitations placed upon her magic.

They gathered again in a camp, and again Gandalf allowed them a sip of the invigorating potion. As they ate, they discussed their path forward.

“There is a way that we may attempt,” said Gandalf. “I thought from the beginning, when I first considered this journey, that we should try it. But it is not a pleasant way, and I have not spoken of it to the company before. Aragorn was against it, until the pass over the mountains had at least been tried.”

“If it is a worse road than the Redhorn Gate, then it must be evil indeed,” said Merry. “But you had better tell us about it, and let us know the worst at once.”

“The road I speak of leads to the Mines of Moria,” said Gandalf.

A heavy knot of dread settled in Holly’s stomach at the name, though it was mostly unfamiliar to her, save what had been spoken of it by the dwarves at the Council. As the company spoke and debated around her, she sank into herself as she’d learned from the old man in the wilds of Mongolia who had told her that all humans had some level of divinatory talent, though few ever made much use of it. It was his teaching that taught her to recognize when there was something pushing her in one direction or another, and she could feel a whisper of that now.

Carefully, she picked apart the threads of the dread in her stomach, trying to tease it into something she could understand.  _ Moria _ . She caught a glimpse of what seemed to be endless darkness, and winding stairwells. There was silence, and old grief, and then a rush of fear and a piercing grief that threatened to overwhelm her, but when she turned her mind forcefully from considering taking the path through the mines, she found that the other path, through the Gap of Rohan, felt worse. No, her path was through the mines, though she suspected it would not be a happy one.

Coming back to the surface, she found the debate still raging around her.

“It is not of the Ring, nor of the others that I am thinking now, but of you, Gandalf. And I say to you: if you pass the doors of Moria, beware!” Aragorn’s voice was filled with a heavy warning, and it sent fresh chills down Holly’s spine. She suspected he could sense some of what she herself did, but it was the rest of the company that she was listening to at the moment.

Frodo’s suggestion that they sleep on the matter was lovely, but something about the wind made her sit up and listen.

“Wolves!” she cried, reaching for her bow, as Aragorn echoed her call. Stripping the leather wrappings from it, she strung it hastily and uncovered her quiver.

They fled up the hill they had taken shelter under, making camp in the circle of trees and boulders they found there. Holly climbed to the top of one of the boulders and lay there, peering out into the night.

Legolas shot one, and the rest seemed to disappear with it, but Holly was not comforted by the silence. She continued her vigil on top of the stones, bow clutched tightly in her hand.

The night was waning when they came again, having moved so stealthily that she very nearly missed them until they were right on top of them. She shouted, and the fire they had kindled in the center of the circle leapt at her command. Everyone rushed to their feet, and then they were set upon.

Holly shot several wolves, choosing her targets carefully, but then she saw Pippin and Merry nearly overtaken by a pair and dropped down to the ground, drawing her dagger and dispatching one before settling in to guard their backs as they saw to it that the fire roared out into the darkness.

Now she was choosing her targets even more carefully, mindful of the number of arrows she had to carry her through the night, but Gandalf was seizing a burning branch and flinging it into the air. With a powerful command, he set the very trees around them alight, and Holly dropped to the ground and fed the fire, a veritable shield of flame around them. Legolas let one final arrow loose, and to Holly’s eyes it seemed to burst into flames as it flew, but the fight was over and dawn creeping over the horizon.

They rested until full light, and then Holly carefully paced around the battleground, looking for her arrows. To her shock, and not a small amount of unease, she found that there were no corpses of wolves, no blood on her arrows. If she hadn’t seen several of them strike true, she would have thought that she’d been shooting at illusions.

* * *

The only good to come of the night’s skirmish was that there was no longer any doubt of the road that awaited them. Even Boromir, who remained stubbornly against the Mines, knew that they would not last another night out in the open. They could not return to Rivendell, and they could not cross Caradhras. Saruman held the Gap of Rohan against them, leaving Moria the only passage to the east that they could chance.

Gandalf and Gimli led them forth, but Holly walked alongside Pebbles and Sam. “We will have to turn him loose,” she said softly to the hobbit, who looked at her beseechingly.

“Surely we can’t?” he asked, tightening his grip on the horse’s headstall. “What with those wolves about and all?”

“He has been through many dangers, but we cannot bring him into Moria,” Holly said gently. “Horses, even those trained by the  _ dunedain _ , are not meant for travelling long distances under mountains.”

So, with a heavy heart, the hobbit helped her unburden Pebbles when they halted briefly while Gandalf and Gimli discussed their path. At first, the wizard questioned why they were turning him loose at that moment, but Holly raised her eyebrow at him.

“The further he gets from us, the safer he will be when night falls,” she said, gesturing to the horse, now bare of burdens. “If he is to have even the slightest of chances to make it back to safer lands, we ought to set him loose now. We can bear the extra weight, or leave it along the road.” Saying so, she picked up two of the extra packs the horse had carried and started forward along the old, forgotten path that led along the dried out streambed they’d struck before their halt.

“Very well,” the wizard said with a sigh, picking up an extra bundle. “We must be off though, if we want to strike the gates by nightfall.”

* * *

They went on down the road, and Holly kept her eyes focused on the path in front of her. Again, they paused, this time at the base of what must have once been a waterfall, and Frodo followed Gimli and Gandalf up the staircase they found, but Holly turned away from the stairs at a nod from Aragorn and followed him further back along the road that they had just traveled.

“We will not be able to climb Stair Falls,” the man said quietly as they backtracked. “Instead, we need to find the loop of the road that will bring us along the northern edge of the valley and up to the Gate from there.”

“I’ll scout right,” Holly replied, slinging her bow over her back and drawing her shorter knife instead. “I assume the usual whistles and signals will work?”

“Considering we were taught by the same people?” Aragorn smiled briefly. “That will do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mauya nin avánië: (Q) I must leave  
> Namárië: (Q) Be well  
> Mára mesta: (Q) Good journey  
> Alámenë: (Q) Go with a blessing


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They reached the doors as darkness fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship enters and departs Moria.

They reached the doors as darkness fell. In the shadows cast by the ancient holly trees, Holly supervised as they sorted through the excess baggage.

“We can leave the extra cold weather gear,” she murmured, exchanging her own for extra waterskins. “From here, we go further south. And anything brought for the trip through the mountain pass.”

With her help, the hobbits made quick work of redistributing the supplies, leaving her plenty of time to brood over the lake before her. She did not like how the water felt, even through the layers of her boots. Something was not right in the waters, and she would be happier once they were in the mines, though her sense of foreboding had been growing as they drew steadily closer. 

Suddenly, Boromir cast a stone into the water, sending ripples skidding across its still surface. Frustrated by the heaviness that had been weighing on her shoulders, Holly turned on him.

“Have you a death wish, or are you just that foolish?” she snapped, tightening her hand on the handle of her knife hanging from her belt so as not to grab his wrist and tighten her grip painfully. “There is something  _ foul  _ in that water, and the last thing we need is to disturb it.”

“Can you not hear the wolves?” the man asked, gesturing back towards where they had come, where one could hear the sound of wolves howling carried on the wind. “Do you not know that we are cornered here, if Gandalf does not solve the riddle of these doors? Not even your  _ witchcraft  _ can hold them off forever!”

“And you think that setting another foulness upon us will help?” Holly hissed back, glad that she was still slightly drained from her use of fire in the previous two nights. Otherwise, she was certain she’d be sparking. “Do not tempt me, or I will see if my  _ witchcraft _ can render you silent and incapable of calling down ill upon all our heads!”

“ _ Thuri _ ,” Aragorn said, warning coloring his tone, and she forced herself to step back, to take up a place at his shoulder, acknowledging that he was her liege lord. But she scowled at Boromir, and he scowled in return.

Finally, Gandalf had the doors open, and they moved to enter, but a cry from Frodo had them all turning. The surface of the lake writhed and churned with motion, and the hobbit had been seized by something Holly could only compare to a tentacle of the Giant Squid from the lake on the grounds of Hogwarts. Sam slashed at it, and it recoiled, allowing the hobbit to pull his master forward.

“Into the mines!” Gandalf cried, and they rushed forward as the creature in the water surged forth and gripped the doors. With a mighty heave, it wrenched them closed behind the company, and they stood in the darkness listening as the sound of falling rock and what must have been the holly trees, now uprooted as they thudded against the door.

“The passage is blocked behind us now, and there is only one way out- on the other side of the mountains.” Gandalf spoke, and Holly was aware of the rest of the company discussing the creature in the water, but she reached out to touch the stone in front of her.

Much like Eregion, there was little left of those who had hewn out these deep places. There were whispers, held by the stones, but they were drowned out by despair and burning and the sharp bite of steel, overlaid with the foulness that she had come to associate with orcs. All of this was stale though, to her senses at least, and she tried to find hope in that. 

Gandalf and Gimli led them forth, pausing for a bite and another sip of the potion Gandalf carried before they moved further up the stairs. The wizard led the way, the tip of his staff lit in a dim glow, Gimli at his heels. Frodo and Sam followed the dwarf, their swords drawn, and Legolas walked behind them, the two younger hobbits at his heels. Boromir kept pace behind them, but Holly stayed in the rear with Aragorn, gripping the hilt of her dirk.

“If you wish a light, I think I could conjure one,” she offered quietly as they walked, Gandalf’s staff a dim beacon before them.

“Save your strength,” he replied, equally quiet. “For something tells me that we will need everything we have before we see the sky again.”

* * *

Holly usually felt she was reasonably accurate in her time keeping, but she lost track of the passing of time in the darkness of Moria. They trekked across narrow bridges that spanned unfathomable caverns and wound their way through paths that had been hewn with just enough space for a single person to pass through. From time to time, Gandalf would pause at a juncture, consulting with Gimli about their direction, but they would move forward again after only a little rest.

She spoke very little in the darkness, only murmured apologies when she trod on Boromir’s heels and warnings to Aragorn about the newest danger she had come across. In her stomach, the knot of dread wound itself tighter, and she both longed for and feared a chance to sort through it in an attempt to gain a stronger idea of what it was foreshadowing.

They paused again at a longer halt at a junction of three paths. When Gandalf did not find an immediate choice, they sought refuge and rest in what had likely been a guard room at one point. She was ready to shake Pippin when the hobbit cast a stone into the uncovered well that occupied the center of the room, but she let Gandalf scold him and wrapped herself in her cloak and tried to ignore the oppressiveness of the darkness surrounding them. Holly tried to slip into meditation, to try and see if she couldn’t get some measure of whatever was causing her dread, but all around her seemed as dark as the shadows and as dense as the stones of the mountains. There would be no answer, no helpful hint to guide her path here.

The others were unrolling bedrolls, but Holly knew she would get little sleep through the night with the sense of dread weighing on her. Yet she would be of no use to anyone if she stayed up, so she pulled her cloak tighter around her and closed her eyes, trying to take advantage of sleep where she could.

At some point in the span of hours, she must have fallen asleep, but when Gandalf woke them, he had a solution to their pathfinding dilemma. Leading them up his chosen path, they found themselves coming to a smoother way, what must have once been a main thoroughfare for the underground realm. It was a relief to walk and not concern herself with abrupt switchbacks and drop offs, and worrying about ambush sites. She had tried to get a read on the stones again when they had stopped, but there was nothing newer to her senses that she could pick up on.

And then suddenly they came out into the open.

The lack of walls made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, but Holly kept her breathing steady and kept her pace even. 

“At last, we are coming to the habitable parts, and I guess that we are not far now from the eastern side.” Gandalf said as they stumbled to a halt. “But we are high up, a good deal higher than the Dimrill Gate, unless I am mistaken. From the feeling of the air, we must be in a wide hall. I will now risk a little real light.”

Suddenly, a blaze of light illuminated the hall, and Holly looked in wonder at the pillars about them. It reminded her of her first sight of the Chamber of Secrets, though with significantly fewer snake motifs, and then the light subsided and they were in the dark once more.

They halted there for a rest, and this time Holly laid out her bedroll, resting as she listened to the others speaking. She agreed with Sam about the verse Gimli recited; she would one day like to learn it herself. Once he had finished, she started to drift off, listening to Gandalf tell of  _ mithril _ .

Gimli woke her at some point in the night to take her watch, and she sat up in the darkness, watching and listening. There was something niggling at her in the back of her mind, as if she had dreamed during her sleep, and the content of the dream was important, but she could not quite place it, since the dream had slipped like water through her fingers when she woke. It worried at her until the end of her watch, when she roused Legolas and returned to her bedroll, hoping it would come again.

When she woke again, there was a faint light, and she rolled up her bedroll and ate her small portion of the day’s rations as the others stirred around her. Once everyone was ready to march, Gandalf led them through the hall to an archway in the northern side, the source of the faint light that illuminated their path.

As the others pressed forward, she hung back. Her sense of unease was growing in a way that she had learned to listen to, and she strung her bow as the others shuffled into the illuminated chamber. Aragorn glanced at her, eyebrow raised, but she didn’t say anything, choosing instead to hang back at the entrance to the chamber while most of the others gathered around Gandalf or the tomb of Balin.

She knew that she probably would get a sense of what had happened here if she touched the walls, or one of the dwarf weapons lying about, but she was afraid of what the lingering magic of Moria might tell her, and part of her suspected she already knew. Listening to Gandalf read out what he could from the records book, Holly felt her sense of dread welling up until it seemed to fill her whole being, and when the wizard called for them to leave, she was the first to move.

Until the rolling beat of the drum.

It sounded from deep below them, swelling to fill the entire city. As the drum beats continued, she heard the sound of pursuers scurrying down the passageways and threw herself inside, pulling the doors shut behind her. To her surprise, Boromir and Aragorn were there with her, shoving the doors shut and bracing them with as many objects as they could. For a long moment, she pressed her palms against the old wood of the door, trying to weave strength and sturdiness into it, but she pulled herself away and retreated to the tomb with the others at Aragorn’s whistle. Gandalf cried out a challenge to the enemies gathered outside the door, and it seemed to quiet them for a moment, but then the door shuddered under a heavy blow, and Holly felt her own reinforcements snapping like dry twigs.

As the door splintered under the force of the onslaught, Holly let an arrow fly, allowing herself a grim smile as an orc went down from it, then drew back and released another arrow. The others were equally swift in their attack, and for a moment, the forces withdrew, only to send in the largest orc that she had ever seen.

Merry and Pippen were halfway through the doorway on the eastern side of the room, the first of the company to retreat from the chamber that threatened to become their tomb, as the orc-captain surged through the door. Holly whipped around from where she’d turned to aim into the darkness that filled the stairwell, covering the hobbits if the orcs sought to catch them unawares, but it was too late. Boromir was knocked aside, Aragorn’s blade avoided, and then the dreadful spear was thrust at Frodo, just as Anduril came down upon his head. Boromir picked himself up, and Aragorn gathered Frodo’s still body in his arms, and Gandalf urged them all to flee.

Holly traded her bow for her knife as she pushed the two younger hobbits down the stairwell, not daring to think of what she had seen. If she thought about it, it would be real, and there was no way she could continue to operate as she needed to if it was real. Aragorn was behind her, with Sam at his heels, and behind them were Gimli and Legolas and Boromir, working to secure the door with Gandalf.

Voices behind her made her pause, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Frodo was alive, or alive enough to be asking to walk again. The two younger hobbits seemed to wilt, as if the tension had drained out of them, but Holly knew they weren’t through it yet. Something was screaming in her ear, a sense of a danger they had not yet encountered, and she felt herself break out in a cold sweat.  _ What could possibly be worse than the death of the Ringbearer? _

She did not want to find out.

As they hurried down the stairs, leaving Gandalf to hold the door to buy them time, Holly called fire to her, just a single spark balanced on her fingertip, enough to give them a sense of where the next step was, but no more. At the bottom, they lingered briefly as the drum beats rolled on, engulfing her from the soles of her feet to the top of her head and vibrating in her very bones, and then Gandalf came flying down to them, only staying upright as Legolas and Gimli reached out to steady him.

They stumbled forward after him, and he bade Holly to put out her light so that they moved forward completely in the darkness. She took up the rear again, hoping that they would soon come to the Dimrill Gate, but not trusting that they would make it there unscathed. The air began to warm around them, and she could hear, faintly, the echo of Gandalf telling those towards the front of the company that the orcs had spoken of fire, possibly the lower levels had been set aflame.

And then they came out into another great hall, and at the foot of a set of pillars, there was a crack, and from it the red-gold glow of fire and smoke came. But Gandalf led them away from it, towards the bridge ahead, which crossed a deep chasm. 

“Lead the way Gimli!” Gandalf cried as they reached the bridge. “Pippin and Merry next. Straight on, and up the stair beyond the door.”

The dwarf started across the narrow bridge, the two hobbits following tentatively behind, but Holly turned and reached for her bow again. Arrows were beginning to come down, one had caught in Gandalf’s hat, and she and Legolas were the only two in the company armed with bows to counter the ranged attackers. But they both paused as the ranks of the enemy faltered before them, parting to reveal a monstrous figure cloaked in shadow, and flame.

“ _ Ai, ai _ !” wailed the elf. “A Balrog! A Balrog!”

Holly’s blood ran cold as she looked at the approaching figure, remembering the tales told of Gondolin, and its destruction. She forced her feet to move, and numbly, she crossed the bridge, joining the hobbits and Gimli on the other side, with Legolas close on her heels, and Boromir and Aragorn beyond him. Gandalf alone stood in the center of the bridge, leaning on his staff, the sword in his hand gleaming coldly.

“Stay back with the others,” Aragorn hissed at her as Holly took up position by his side, arrow nocked and ready to release as the Balrog drew closer.

“Is that an order?” she snapped, eyes on the approaching shadow.

“Do as I say,” he gritted out as Gandalf confronted the horror before them. “We may yet have need of your skills, and this is not your place to fall.”

The dread whispering in the pit of her stomach agreed with him; it was not  _ her _ death she was sensing. This was the moment though, and she was loath to just sit back and allow one of their number to die.

And then the Balrog stepped out onto the bridge. Aragorn and Boromir leapt forward, and Holly released her arrow, but Gandalf’s staff broke, and with it, the bridge, crumbling from the center. The Balrog fell, forward and down into the dark chasm. Yet in one last cruel stroke, much as the fall of Gondolin had been recounted, the thongs of the whip it carried wrapped around Gandalf’s ankle and bore him down into the darkness with it.

* * *

Everything went dark. The echo of Gandalf’s last command, as the bridge crumbled and Aragorn and Boromir retreated, rang in Holly’s ears. Desperately, she dropped her bow and reached out into the darkness, blood pounding in her head as she kept seeing Gandalf falling from the bridge, Dumbledore falling from the tower.

Once again, she was helpless.

Fury and grief surged up in her, overwhelming her as she reached as she had never reached before, calling everything that she was, every iota of her magic to bear as she cast it out into the darkness, looking for any sign of Gandalf. He had not been dead when he fell. If she could just call him back to her, sever the whip, she could save him-!

There was a flash of light and her hand, once outstretched was gripping something solid and familiar, but before she could do anything more than stare, there was a solid arm around her waist and she was being forced backwards. “Come! I will lead you now” Aragorn called, forcing her back towards the rest of the company. “We must obey his last command. Follow me!”

She stumbled forward, tripping over her feet as they rushed up the stairs into a long, flat hall, where daylight flooded through high windows, towards the broken doors at the far end. Aragorn dove at the orc who stood in his way, Anduril flashing in the sunlight as it clove head from body, and the rest of the orcs that had been guarding the door fled in terror, back into the mines. Weary and heartsick, the company staggered out into the sunlight, looking upon the Dimrill Dale as they pressed forward, trying to put distance between themselves and the broken gates.

At last, they stopped, driven to a halt by their grief. Holly could see the tears streaming down the faces of the hobbits, Frodo and Sam leaning heavily on each other as they moved towards where Pippin and Merry had collapsed on the ground. Legolas was staring out into the distance, grief written deep into his expression, while Gimli sat nearby, chest heaving in what Holly assumed were sobs.

Her hand tightened around something, and she looked down to realize that her bow had been left in the mines, and she was bearing something else in its stead. She mourned the loss of her bow briefly, but she switched her attention to the stave in her hand.

It was a pale wood, carved with runes in faint patterns, and as it registered, she felt revulsion growing in her stomach, replacing the dread and drowning out her grief.

Enraged, she threw the staff onto the ground, wishing it would splinter and burn. She did not want this.  _ She did not want this _ .

When it simply lay there, she reached for fire, ignoring how it tugged at her core, gathering a handful and striding over to the staff, intending to set it alight. But it would not take, no matter how much she tried, so she extinguished the fire in her hand and seized the staff in both hands, intending to break it over her knee, or a solid stone if her knee would not suffice.

A hand seized her wrist, and she whirled to face the owner, furious at being stopped. But Aragorn simply tightened his grip on her wrist warningly.

“Let me go,” she snapped, trying to free her wrist. “I need to destroy it.”

“Why?” he challenged, holding her in place. “What is this staff to you?”

“ _ Pain _ ,” she said, her voice cracking, and she looked away in shame. “It has brought me and mine nothing but pain, and I had hoped to never see it again.”

She had  _ left _ the wand behind. Safely tucked in her enchanted trunk with Kreacher in Rivendell. Holly had sworn never to use it, never to acknowledge it, even after her faithful holly and phoenix had been destroyed in her arrival to Arda. It was too much for her to bear, the source of her curse.

“Why now?” he asked her, shaking her wrist slightly to get her attention. “Why do you have a staff now, so far from any place you might have found one?”

“This is mine,” she said, scowling at it. “Mine by loss and by conquest and I never wanted to see it again. It was a wand, when I last saw it, and I do not know why it came to me now.”

She suspected, she was  _ afraid _ , that in her grief, she had called out with everything she  _ was _ , not just everything that she had, and the wand had heard that. As she thought about it, she felt a familiar stone in her hand, the one Aragorn was still holding, and the ghost of a weight settled about her shoulders, like a cloak she could reach up and tug around herself.

“Are you to take up Gandalf’s place then?” Aragorn asked quietly, eyes fixed on her staff. “Is that why?”

“No,” she said, wrenching her wrist free as his grip softened, and she whipped the stone in her hand away from them, but it reappeared in her hand, so she shoved it roughly into her belt pouch and turned away. “I am no wizard.”

“What are you then?” he asked, stepping towards her, keeping their conversation separate from the rest of the company. “Why do you have magic like the  _ Istari _ , why has this staff come to you, what is the stone you just had?”

“ _ The Master of Death _ ,” she whispered, and she saw him recoil. “I do not die like mortal men, and I no longer use magic as my people did because this land does not support that. It is my curse and my burden and I  _ did not ask for it _ .”

Aragorn took a step back in shock. “Immortal?” he breathed.

“Cursed to live forever and watch all that I care about wither away into dust,” she replied bitterly, turning away. “Some may call it a boon, but it is a curse.”

“So that is how you do not age,” he murmured, eyeing her. “I had wondered, but never did I think that something like this was even possible.”

“It is not,” Holly gritted out, tightening her grip on the staff that had once been the Elder Wand. “And I will speak of this no more. The loss of my bow is regrettable, and in no way does this staff change my ability or my desire to use magic beyond what I have demonstrated.”

* * *

After a time, Aragorn drove them onwards, down the slope and into the dell. Gimli halted briefly to gaze upon Mirrormere, and they halted once more to eat something and dress the wounds they had left unheeded during their flight from Moria, but they set off as soon as they were able to move again, heading for a wooded land that Legolas and Aragorn called  _ Lothlorien _ .

She felt numb. Her grief, and the rage at discovering the Elder wand in her hand, though it was now a staff, had drained away, leaving her empty.

That emptiness had nearly destroyed her, ten years after Voldemort failed to. The day that she woke up and realized she wasn’t aging, that the title of  _ Master of Death _ which she had spent ten years pretending meant nothing after her miraculous return from the dead actually was far heavier than she could have ever imagined. For three years she chased after every possible fix for that emptiness: lovers, alcohol, even a few of the less exotic drugs out there, but nothing worked. Nothing ever managed to make her feel whole again after she realized that she would one day be left alone after watching everyone she ever loved die.

It took the combined might of Hermione and Andromeda to pull her out of her misery and sober her up, and then Hermione, in a very Hermione-like fashion, pointed out that there might be someone,  _ somewhere _ that might have an answer for her.

_ Or a way to die _ they all left unsaid, but understood.

The next ten years had been a whirlwind of travel and learning. She’d surprised herself, with her ability to learn. Hermione had simply looked smug. But in the end, Holly had ended up fluent in five modern languages, passably fluent in another handful of ancient ones, and holding masteries in runes, alchemy, charms, and enchanting. Based on her own personal metrics, she figured she was probably halfway to masteries in potions and herbology, especially now that she had spent several years trying to recreate some of the more useful potions based on what she could find around her. There had been a few minor successes, but one failed experiment had nearly blown up the tent she was using as a laboratory so she’d sworn off any experimentation until she had a proper potions’ lab.

But here she was, without her friends, without her family, with limited access to her magic. She had once again failed to save someone right in front of her. She could not destroy the One Ring, instead having to trust that Frodo’s strength could bear it to Mordor and into the shadows there.

What  _ good _ did it do anyone that she was the  _ Master of Death _ ?

The feel of softer ground beneath her feet caught her attention and she drew herself out of her thoughts to see herself standing in front of a stream.

Legolas had waded in, some of the care dropping from his face and leaving his shoulders lighter. The hobbits, as they forded, seemed to experience the same thing. As she herself passed through the water, she felt a touch of magic, and that touch was enough to fortify her, though she was still uneasy and preoccupied with the significance of the staff in her hand.

It wasn’t until Legolas  _ fell out of a tree _ that she snapped fully to attention.

Her staff came up instinctively, ready to strike out, but the conversation between Legolas, Aragorn, and the elf who spoke for the strangers made her stand down. Soon, Frodo and Sam were accompanying the elves into the trees, while Aragorn, Boromir, the younger hobbits, and Gimli were making themselves comfortable on the ground.

“Be at ease,” Aragorn murmured to her lightly as he passed by to pick up the packs that Frodo and Sam had dropped. “We are safe within these woods, as safe as we might be in these times. Haldir is the Marchwarden of these lands, and his sentries are well trained. No harm shall come to us within the forest bounds.”

_ Are we? _ She wanted to ask as she leaned against a nearby tree trunk. For a moment, she entertained the thought of slipping away into the growing shadows beneath the trees. The Resurrection Stone sat heavily in her belt pouch, and if she could only speak with Gandalf just for a moment…

“Thuri.” Aragorn’s touch on her shoulder startled her. She looked over to see that another rope ladder had been dropped, and Haldir was supervising the first as Merry and Pippin toted up the packs left behind by Frodo and Sam. “We will sleep in the  _ talan _ above tonight.”

“Very well,” she murmured, automatically bowing her head. “I am sorry for my distraction.”

“Are you well?”

“The loss of Gandalf has shaken me,” she admitted as Boromir eyed the new ladder suspiciously before beginning to climb. “And the appearance of this staff has dredged up memories I had hoped forgotten.”

“ _ A woman? _ ” Haldir asked Aragorn as she approached the ladder, apparently just now catching a glimpse of her face under her hood and cowl. “ _ Aragorn, you travel in bewildering company. _ ”

“ _ And she speaks Sindarin too _ ,” Aragorn warned as she started to climb, awkwardly tucking the staff in the same harness she used to carry her bow stave. “ _ So I would not risk anything uncomplimentary where she might hear. _ ”

“ _ You forget, my friend, where the power of Lothlorien dwells. _ ”

* * *

The night hours passed slowly. Gimli seemed to sleep as the stone his people preferred over most else, and Borormir tossed and turned in his sleep. Legolas sat with the cloaked guards that resided in the  _ talan _ , and Aragorn slept like a campaigner, coming to wakefulness at untoward noises, but returning to sleep as quickly as safety was assured.

Holly wrapped herself in her cloak and leaned up against the broad trunk of the tree, and tried to plan for how she, how  _ they _ could proceed. The Ring  _ must _ be destroyed, and Mordor seemed to be the only path that would lead them to its destruction.

So what then? She had looked over the maps kept by Elrond, and could locate their relative location easily enough. To reach Mordor, they had to go southeast, though whether they came to the darkness by way of Gondor and Minas Tirith was up for debate.

Mulling over the paths the company might tread, and what might hinder or help them on their way, she almost didn’t notice Aragorn coming to full wakefulness, knife in hand, as the elves in the  _ talan _ all reached for their bows.

Carefully laying aside her staff, which she was afraid to admit had come as quickly to hand as her bow previously had, Holly glanced at Aragorn, flashing him the Ranger hand sign for  _ orders _ . He glanced at the elves, who were positioned to shoot, and then signed back:  _ Orcs. Do nothing unless engaged. _

She relaxed slightly, but kept her hand close to her knife, and the other near the dagger tucked slyly into her boot top. Most of the time, she never used any weapon but her bow and the knife she bore openly on her belt, but since she had landed in this world, she found that she was most comfortable with several backup weapons on her person.

Having to replace all of them after Donnvail had been  _ frustrating _ .

The night passed, and the orcs did not trouble them. Instead, she got to listen to Gimli argue with the elves over the need for him to be blindfolded and led deeper into the woods when morning came.

When Aragorn finally interceded, Holly breathed a sigh of relief. The unfamiliar weight of her new staff was like a pebble in her boot that she couldn’t get rid of, and listening to the bickering made it worse. Irritably, she tugged down her hood and cowl, only to find the rest of the company, and their escort, was staring at her.

“What?” she snapped, thought about it, and then snapped out the same question in Sindarin for good measure.

“Isn’t her hair  _ brown _ ?” Pippen muttered to Merry, immediately getting elbowed for the incredibly loud whisper.

Tugging a strand down just enough that she could see it, Holly snarled wordlessly and her hair shifted back to dull dark brown, instead of the pitch black she had been born with. Another quick thought and  _ shift _ of magic, and she was reasonably certain her eyes were no longer green.

If anything, that made the staring worse. Boromir, who had been on edge ever since they walked under the shadow of the trees, looked about one snapped twig away from bolting. The hobbits looked awed. Legolas and Gimli seemed to have put aside their irritation over the blindfolds in favor of staring at her, and Aragorn kept eyeing her as if she was a riddle he was trying to solve.

The elves of Lorien, however, seemed to simply eye her with a bit more wariness, and a touch of respect.

Eventually they started moving, and Holly let bits of herself sink into the ground to try to get a sense beyond the light touches of the guides to direct her. She was surprised to feel magic, old and strong, vibrant beneath her feet. It was a bit like Rivendell, but this was even older and stronger, but it felt as if there was a single source somewhere, as if the magic was being  _ imposed _ on the land. Or the natural magic was so entwined with the caster’s magic that they were impossible to separate.

Which, now that she thought about it, was probably the reason that she wasn’t getting rather high off the accumulated magic. She was unable, or at least not naturally able, to siphon magic from sentient sources, only her surroundings. If a single magic-user was exerting this much power on Lorien, they had to be ridiculously powerful, possibly on par with Holly herself when Holly had access to her full potential.

The thought lifted some of the weariness from her shoulders. Perhaps there might be an answer to why magic seemed much less available elsewhere. Perhaps she might be able to find a way to remove the title of  _ Master of Death _ .

Idly, as they walked, she teased gently at the magic around them, trying to figure out what its purpose was. She was getting a strong sense of preservation, of the prevention of decay and aging. There was something, some  _ memory _ tickling at the back of her mind, but her attempts to force it out into the forefront and make the connection were interrupted by the arrival of another company of elves.

This new company spoke briefly with their guides, a report of the fate of the orcs, and the sightings of a strange creature, and then passed along the orders that the restriction of their sight could be ended. Out of politeness, Holly waited until the order was given to the company as a whole before she pulled off the blindfold and tugged her hood and cowl back up.

It was an old habit, trying not to be seen, leftover from the days when the scar on her forehead was as good as a flashing neon sign pointing to her identity. She’d forsaken it after her arrival, only to pick it back up as easily as if she’d never left it behind in the first place when she began working with the Rangers.

Haldir announced that they were deep within Lothlorien, and that they had arrived at a hill that Aragorn seemed familiar with, falling deeply into memory as the others stared in wonder at their surroundings. Legolas looked joyful, the grief driven momentarily from his face, and the others seemed to find their burdens eased.

Only Boromir still seemed discomfited, shying away from the elves around them, and from Holly herself as she attempted to approach him, seeing as Aragorn was distracted. The man of Gondor seemed even more skittish than he had been at the entrance to the forest, and it itched at Holly, reminding her of the way the students had skittered away from her during her second year.

Movement caught her eye, and Holly noticed Haldir approaching with Frodo and Sam, and she moved closer to Aragorn, guessing that the company would be moving once more soon enough. He seemed to come out of his memories as he stooped to pick one of the small yellow flowers that grew entwined with the grass at their feet.

“Fair Arwen, farewell,” he murmured, and the rest of the company drifted nearer as Haldir announced his intent to move them into the city below them, Caras Galadhon.

* * *

They were brought through the city as evening fell, and steadily they climbed into the boughs of the great trees, trees that dwarfed any others Holly had ever seen. Eventually, they came into a great hall, in which many elves were gathered, and at their head were a pair she could only assume were the lord and lady of the forest.

While the lord bore some resemblance to Legolas, and some of the other elves Holly had met in Imladris, the lady more keenly resembled Glorfindel, and there was a light in her being that Holly could not put her finger on as she struggled to define it, if only for her own purposes. The pair seemed to have a timeless quality about them, even greater than the air of agelessness that hung over the entire forest, but there was simultaneously a sense of great wisdom that comes from age and experience.

The Lord Celeborn welcomed them each by name, granting them a seat at his table and bidding them be welcome. But as Holly came before the lord, last, he deferred to the lady, who had stood beside him, silent and grave.

“Welcome Thuri,” she murmured as Holly bowed before the pair, “you have wandered far from the home of your birth.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgement, but the Lady Galadriel had nothing further to say to her at the time, and Holly took her place at the end of the table the fellowship had been seated at.

Celeborn began to speak, once they were all settled. “Here there are nine,” he said. “Ten were to set out: so said the messages. But maybe there has been some change of counsel that we have not heard. Elrond is far away, and darkness gathers between us, and all this year the shadows have grown longer.”

“Nay, there was no change of counsel,” said the Lady Galadriel. “Gandalf the Grey set out with the Company, but he did not pass the borders of this land. Now tell us where he is; for I much desired to speak with him again. But I cannot see him from afar, unless he comes within the fences of Lothlorien: a grey mist is about him, and the ways of his feet and of his mind are hidden from me.”

Aragorn made some response, but Holly was too busy picking apart the words the elf had spoken. A seer, almost undoubtedly. The Lady seemed capable of fairly intrusive scrying, if she could ascertain the ways of Gandalf’s mind as he lived, or possibly a talent for legilimency far stronger than anything Dumbledore, Snape, or Riddle had ever managed to master.

Around her, the conversation continued, but Holly found herself trapped by Galadriel. The elf’s eyes were not in constant contact with her own, but Holly felt the press of legilimency on the shields she had worked hard to build in the years she spent with the Aurors and warily let the probe knock against her shields.

The next time Galadriel’s eyes fell upon her, Holly pulled back her shields like a curtain, offering the elf a chance for a supervised trip behind them.

Unlike other times when she had encountered a Legilimens, Holly heard the elf’s voice in her head.

_ You are full of many surprises, Thuri the Ranger. _

Holly kept her surprise from her face as she carefully formed her response.  _ I have been told that once or twice _ .

_ And what is your greatest desire? _

At Galadriel’s unvoiced question, only Holly’s long practice in hiding her emotions as an Auror who often worked tough cases kept her still. The conversation moved along smoothly as she struggled to come up with a composed response, and then waited for Galadriel’s eyes to return to her.

_ Once it was my family, _ she said, and she was nearly certain that a fragment of the memory of standing before the Mirror of Erised slipped through.  _ Now, I do not know. But I suspect that what I desire is beyond the power of any man, elf, or Istari to grant me. _

_ Oh? _

_ I do not die, Lady Galadriel _ , Holly thought as her hand closed once more around the Resurrection Stone in her pocket.  _ I was cursed many years ago, and neither the passage of time nor the cruelty of war can defy my curse, no matter how much I wish to someday join those that have gone before me. _

The only sign of a reaction from the elf was a slight widening of her eyes, but then the Company was rising, and Galadriel’s presence retreated from behind Holly’s shields as she hurried to stand with them. 

* * *

As the Company settled into the pavilion that had been erected for them in the trees near the great fountain that rested at the base of the tree, Holly carefully set her staff aside. No matter how much she despised it, the Elder Wand had come when she called and shaped itself to fit some purpose she was not yet aware of. Now that her initial rage and grief had passed, she was curious as to why it had reshaped itself from a wand to a staff, and vowed to herself that she would investigate when she found a moment.

The hobbits were tweaking each other over their reactions to Galadriel’s legilimency, but Boromir seemed particularly discomfited by it. Holly was about to intervene as he deflected from his own experience by questioning Frodo, but Aragorn rebuked him before she could open her mouth. 

Weariness swept over her as she settled into the soft couch that had been laid for her, and she found that she fell into slumber far easier than she had expected. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is not prophecy that binds you.”

**Chapter Nine:**

The days seemed to pass without any way of reckoning them, but Holly did her best, ticking off days on a small stick she collected on the first day after their audience with the Lord and Lady. She felt ill at ease after the second day of leisure, and Holly found herself roaming farther and farther afield until she found the training grounds and was allowed to borrow one of the spare bows kept there.

Occasionally she saw Legolas and Gimli on her wanderings, the unlikely pair seeming to have resolved their differences somewhere between the gates of Moria and the borders of Lothlorien. The hobbits remained within the borders of Caras Galadhon, seldom straying from its winding paths, and Boromir never left the sight of the pavilion as far as Holly knew. Aragorn occasionally moved about the city and spoke with some of the elves there, but otherwise he remained near enough that the hobbits or Boromir could seek him out if needed.

On the second week of their stay, Holly could stand being without her primary weapon no longer. While she had once wielded the Sword of Gryffindor, a bow was much more useful than a long blade in the wilds surrounding Aughaire, and easier to come by. Therefore, she had trained on the bow and her knives and become proficient enough with them before Donnvail, and her removal to Esteldin. There, she had picked up swordplay and gained enough proficiency that the trainers had cleared her to bear a sword of her own, but her duties among the Rangers very rarely had her standing and fighting, and she preferred the familiarity of the bow.

Part of those lessons in woodcraft was the crafting of her own weapons, and she held them in mind as she approached the weapons master nearest the training ground she frequented and begged his permission to replace her lost weapon.

“Lost?” he scoffed at her, examining the arrows one of the fletchers had just offered him. “What bowman is so careless that he loses his weapon?”

“Have you passed through the gates of Khazad-Dum in the last century?” Holly snapped in return. “Have you been within shooting range of a Balrog? Speak not of carelessness and speak instead of distraction and desperation. And now I am here to replace it with another of my own crafting, not one made by another. All I ask for is a sturdy, seasoned stave and a place in which to work.”

Snidely, the weapons master offered her a stave, but she held her ground and demanded that if he was going to allow her to replace her bow, she would choose the stave herself. Reluctantly, he showed her to the collection of staves, and she examined each one carefully before settling on a sturdy ash stave. Settling on the grass outside his domain, where he could not protest, she drew her boot knife and began stripping the stave of its bark in careful, quick movements.

It took her most of that day and the next to strip the bark and shape the grip and string grooves to her liking, but by the end of the third day there was a small crowd of elves lurking near wherever she chose to work, watching as she carefully drew back the bow for the first time and tested its flexibility. 

That night, she carried it back to the pavilion and carefully waxed the bow so that it would hold against weather and time. Boromir and Aragorn eyed her work, but said nothing, and the hobbits dozed on their own couches, unbothered by what she was or wasn’t doing.

* * *

By the fifth day, the bow was ready to be tested on the archery range. A gaggle of elves were openly watching as she strung it using one of the strings she carried as a reserve and reached for one of the shafts remaining in her quiver. She would need to make more, but she carried her own supplies for that and would not have to argue with the weapons master again.

Drawing back, she sighted her target and let the arrow fly, hiding a smirk in her cowl as it hit the target dead center and the assembled elves couldn’t help but let slip a light gasp as it sank in fairly deep.

She wouldn’t admit to it if someone asked, but she had purposefully chosen a far closer target than she needed, in order to create that effect. 

That night, she laid her bow by her couch as she went to sleep. The past few mornings, she had found herself waking with her hand clutching the Elder Staff, and it was an uncomfortable feeling, knowing that she was reaching out for it unconsciously. Holly knew it was irrational, but she would feel better if she woke clutching her bow, rather than the staff which had once been a wand.

* * *

While she often came across the Galadhrim in her wanderings, Holly had not seen the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood since the night they had arrived in Caras Galadhon. Whether they were frequently absent from the daily movements within the city, or whether it was because of the conflict brought to their doorstep by the Company’s presence, she couldn’t tell. Yet, to her surprise, she came across the Lady Galadriel when she least expected it.

She had woken from another nightmare, this one of Gandalf falling into the darkness of Moria, and chosen to go and sit by the pool instead of laying restlessly on her couch, waiting for dawn to come, and with it, a new day of attempting to make herself useful or prepared for when they inevitably left once more.

“You are not like other men.”

Holly turned her head slightly and saw the Lady Galadriel standing nearby, looking as insubstantial as a patronus in the moonlight filtering down through the golden  _ mallorn _ trees. “I am not one of them.”

“No, you are not.” Galadriel’s gaze was heavy and unwavering. “None but the White Council still dwell on these shores who could touch the powers with which I hold these lands against the darkness.”

“The darkness, or the passage of time?”

Galadriel nodded once, slowly. “Most strangers who enter this wood find it difficult to keep time within its borders. Your companions are not exempt from this, as you might have noticed. It may be...presumptuous of me, but I would hold this one last haven against all that threatens it, even time itself, if I must. For here there is no shadow, no darkness, and here those that once saw Aman under the light of the trees might find solace until they cross the sundering seas to return.”

Slowly, the lady of the wood turned away from the silvery waters of the fountain and stepped away, further into the city. Holly watched her go, and was surprised when the Lady looked back. “Are you coming?”

Curious, Holly rose and followed the elf lady, her own footsteps loud in comparison to the soundless glide of Galadriel’s bare feet in the dewy glass. Their path ended in a walled garden, with a pedestal in the center that held an empty basin.

“You are not  _ Istari _ , but you touch magic in a way that may even exceed them,” Galadriel said, lifting the basin and carrying it to the nearby fountain. “You are touched by Fate.”

“I have no skill in the Sight,” Holly replied, watching as she filled the basin and bore it back to the pedestal. “But I am not unfamiliar with being bound by prophecy.”

“Prophecy?” Galadriel seemed to ponder the word for a long moment as she stood before the filled basin. “No,” she said, breaking the silence between them. “It is not prophecy that binds you.”

“Do you have no Seers?” challenged Holly, raising her eyebrow. 

“There are those that See,” the elf said gravely, her gaze once more settling on Holly like a weight. “Those that are gifted visions and dreams that guide their actions or the actions of others. I have but a touch; Aragorn, son of Arathorn, does also at times speak words of foresight.”

A chill ran down Holly’s spine. She remembered Aragorn’s words of warning to Gandalf before the Company fled to the West Gate of Moria, the sense of fate she had reacted to. “I do not See.”

Galadriel seemed to examine her from the inside out. “No,” she agreed, “you do not. But you too feel the touch of Fate, which is often the more valuable knowledge. For with Sight, one sees many things. Things that were. Things that are. And things that may yet come to pass. If I look into the waters of my mirror,” the basin of water before her on the pedestal seemed to shine silver as she gestured to it, “I see these things, but I do not know the truth of them.”

Her eyes dropped from Holly, and it was as if a weight dropped off her shoulders, but the air around them seemed to thicken. Holly could feel the magic in the air, the way she had felt when an African sage offered to look into her future for her. She had put on her dampeners as a precaution when she first noticed she could sense the natural magic in the wood, but since then she’d adapted enough to trust herself without them.

“There are many paths set before you, and before the Company with you,” Galadriel said, her eyes slipping to half closed as she gazed into the water in the pitcher. 

“Choices lie before us all,” Holly retorted, recalling Aragorn and Boromir’s debate over their flight from Moria and entrance to Lothlorien, knowing that it was far from decided which path the Company will take. “Yet until we make them, the future is not settled.”

“You are far wiser than many,” Galadriel glanced up from the water, a shade of a smile on her face. “Often, the words of those who See are taken as absolute by those that hear them.”

“I was once bound by prophecy because a madman believed in the words of a Seer,” with a shrug, Holly met the elf’s eyes evenly. “When I feel the tugging of fate, I will listen, but only to determine which path I must walk.”

“And where does fate lead you?”

“It led me to Frodo and my lord Aragorn,” Holly glanced at the basin herself, seeing nothing but clear, silvery water. “I knew that fell things awaited us within Moria, but I also knew that my path lay through its gates. Where my path leads beyond these woodlands, I do not know, but for the moment, it is entwined with that of the Ring.”

“There is something within you that drives you to the Ring,” Galadriel said offhandedly, turning to pace through the garden, pausing to caress the petals of one of the night blooming plants. “Something that keeps you close to it.”

“The madman was not unlike Sauron in that he sought to preserve his existence through the creation of soul-containers,” Holly made a conscious effort to relax her hands, which had balled into fists. “I would not allow another of these abominations to exist if I could, and had I the means to destroy it, the Ring would have already been destroyed. Yet those means are lost to me now, and I instead must accompany the Bearer to the fires for my desire to be satisfied.”

“ _ Must _ you?” the elf asked, glancing over her shoulder. “You swore no oaths to the Ring, but you bear other oaths.”

“I serve at the pleasure of my Lord Aragorn,” Holly murmured automatically, remembering the oaths she had sworn before Lady Gilraen and several of her lieutenants, including Halbarad, once she was judged well enough to make an informed choice. “Where he orders me, I will go.”

“And if he orders you elsewhere?” Galadriel murmured, bending down to pluck a weed out of the bed she was standing in front of. “What then?”

Holly grit her teeth, but she knew her answer. Had known it might happen since the moment she realized that  _ Strider _ was her liege lord. Only he had the power to set her on a different path now, and she had come to terms with it as best as she could. “I serve my lord,” she replied, bowing her head and studying her hands. “He knows what path I wish to walk, and if he orders me elsewhere, I must trust that there is a reason for it.”

“Oaths are powerful things,” the sharp scent of rosemary was released into the garden as Galadriel bruised a plant between her fingers. “Many a valiant elf was laid low by words sworn in haste.”

“Words have the power to bind, certainly,” Holly said slowly, wondering what context she was missing in Galadriel’s warning. “But they also have the power to free. I do not wish to be anything more than I am, and my oath to my lord allows me that.”

“And what are you?” Galadriel asked, turning to face her once more. “Neither  _ eldar _ nor  _ edain _ , nor  _ istari _ , yet you stand before me, unchanging.”

“I am cursed,” she replied, feeling once more the weight of Death’s cloak around her shoulders, the Resurrection Stone in her pocket. Her right hand curled, as if around the staff she had left lying next to her couch in the Company’s pavilion. “While my curse persists, I will not age and I will not fall in battle. Instead, I will watch those I care about grow old and die, or fall to an enemy’s blow. There is nothing I can do to lift this curse, and I doubt that even one so powerful as you, my lady, can take it from my shoulders.”

* * *

Eventually, their stay in Lothlorien drew to a close. Carefully, Holly checked that all her weapons were in order, that she had resupplied whatever had been lost or depleted, and then, on the morning of their departure, she joined the rest of the Company on the shores of the Silverlode. They had debated long and fiercely over their path beyond the forest boundaries, but there was no decision yet. 

The Lord Celeborn’s gift of boats had bought them time, but as Holly watched Boromir stewing from the corner of her eye, she suspected there was more contention in their future.

Galadriel bid them farewell, bestowing each of them with gifts that seemed best suited to their circumstances and desires. As Holly stepped forward, clad in the cloak that had been brought for her that morning, she met Galadriel’s eyes steadily.

“There is nothing that I can give to you to ease your path,” the elf said slowly, studying her. “But is there something you would ask of me in spite of that failure?”

“My lady Galadriel,” Holly bowed politely. “There can be no failure when what I desire is not within your power to offer. That I have walked the paths of the Golden Wood and sought rest beneath its boughs has refreshed my spirit so that I might go on. That to me is worth far more than I can reckon.”

Gracefully, the elf inclined her head in acceptance of Holly’s words, and then before Holly could react, Galadriel bent to press her lips against Holly’s brow, right where the lightning scar should be, if she was not concealing it with her slight talent for metamorphmagry.

“ _ May your Fate speak clearly to you and guide your footsteps, _ ” breathed Galadriel as she withdrew. It took a moment for Holly to realize that she’d spoken in Quenya, her words heavy with magic, but as questions sprung to her tongue, the elf lady was already withdrawing back to her husband’s side.

The ruling couple bade them farewell once more. Taking her seat in the boat between Legolas and Gimli, Holly helped wield a paddle as they drifted out into the center of the stream, the current catching them and carrying them ever further from the shores of Lothlorien until they joined with the Anduin.

Over the waters came Galadriel’s voice once more, her voice singing of Valinor and of exile. Her words seemed to bother Gimli little, as she sung in Quenya, but Holly exchanged a look with Legolas as they drove their paddles into the dark waters.  _ Maybe thou might find it _ Galadriel sang, and for a moment, something akin to a desperate hope was kindled in Holly’s heart. Valinor, the Undying Lands where the elves would return to one day.

But as quickly as the hope bloomed, it failed. No mortal had set foot on those distant shores, save Earendil and Elwing, elf-kin as they were, and never again did they come back, leaving their sons behind to make their own choices. The shores of Valinor were closed to her, even though it was likely the only place where she might live out her long ages without the pain and suffering of watching those she cared for age and die.

Around her, Gimli and Legolas talked of their own losses and hurts, but Holly sat numbly between them, caught in the throes of her own loss. Not since the initial realization did the weight of her curse seem so heavy to bear, nearly crushing her under its weight.

  
  


The days on the river were still and quiet, broken only by the rushing river below them and the dip of their paddles in the water. From time to time, the rustling of small animals moving on the bank carried over the water to their ears, but Holly kept her eyes forward, focused on the boats ahead. Boromir had been acting strangely since their sojourn in Lorien, and she no longer quite trusted him, though she was unsure if she had ever trusted him at all.

Admittedly, his hostility to Aragorn, to her sworn lord’s claim to the throne of Gondor, had set her on edge from the first. Having seen the  _ dunedain _ and their work in the north, having walked first among them and then with them, she knew that they sought not glory nor power, but safety for the lands they guarded. And they dreamed that a king might once more sit upon the throne in the north and south, bringing peace and stability to the lands of men.

_ By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe _ she had once heard him say, and it caused fury to course through her. She had no doubt of the stalwart defenses of Gondor, yet the  _ dunedain _ , who she had sworn herself to, had lost far more. The line of kings had fallen in both kingdoms, but the North had kept its scions alive against all hope for this day. Gondor was still a kingdom, held in the hands of its stewards, but Arnor had fractured and splintered under Sauron’s thrall in Carn Dum, been beaten away into the ragtag remnants of a once mighty kingdom. The blood of the  _ dunedain  _ was fading, as more and more fell to the growing shadows. Should war proper break out in the North, any victory by the Northmen would be pyrrhic.

But there was something in his eyes when he looked at Frodo, when the Ring was brought up, that made her wary, that made her think of Riddle’s diary and the locket’s whispering. Soul-shards were dangerous, even more so when they ensnared another to do their bidding. Boromir, resistant to the idea of the Ring’s destruction from the start, would be an easy target for a soul-shard’s malice.

Eight nights into their journey, with everyone wary of their silent follower, they fled the Great River, seeking the safety of its banks instead of daring the perils of the rapids ahead. And on the eastern bank they found orcs, and Holly knelt in the boat, drawing back her bowstring as she tried to sight targets in the dark. Gimli wrestled vainly with the boat as Legolas also took up his bow, but as they returned to the center of the river, both of them abandoned their bows to help the dwarf steady the small craft.

Eventually, weary, they reached the western shore, and were not immediately set upon by orcs, so Holly called it a success as she helped Gimli hold the boats steady against the bank. Unease roiled in her gut, but she could see no target, hear no noise that might betray an enemy creeping up to catch them unaware. Legolas and Aragorn seemed to be equally on edge, and Legolas took up his bow from the bottom of the boat where he had set it aside, and stood perched on the rocky shore where they had sought refuge, looking up at the stars.

Something came up out of the south, moving far quicker than any cloud, and Legolas bent his bow as the hobbits huddled in the shadows of the bank. Holly felt her magic stirring within her, the dread falling upon her reminded her of the Nazgul, of the fight at the Fords of Bruinen, and she longed to call forth fire to drive back the shadow passing overhead. But Legolas’s bow sang out, and the shadow fell from the sky, landing somewhere in the distance as its scream trailed off into the night.

None of the Company said a word as they readied the boats and moved upstream until they found a small bay to rest in for the night. Unlike their usual habit, they did not leave the boats, bedding down in the small spaces as best they could to pass the rest of the night. The others spoke quietly of the fallen shadow, and Legolas’s remarkable shot, but Holly wrapped herself in her cloak and nestled herself in the prow, hoping to get what little rest she might be able to. Since leaving the sheltering woods of Lorien, she had not found rest easily, her dreams filled with the clash of swords and shouting that could only be a skirmish.

Whether it was a memory of a past encounter, or a foretelling of something yet to come, she dared not guess. Nothing had been clear enough to distinguish, and the others were on edge already. One woman’s dreams would do little to make things better, and might make things worse.

The morning came, bringing with it a fog, and yet another argument between Aragorn and Boromir about the path ahead. From her seat in the prow of the boat, she could hear Boromir’s temper and patience fraying, and Aragorn’s own uncertainty. Frodo’s own voice added weight to Aragorn’s plan to lead the company to Amon Hen, the seat of kings, before the decision was made, and for the moment, a divide was forestalled. But she could feel it coming, closer and closer with each day, and she caught her chieftain’s eye and motioned for him to join her on the bank as she slipped out onto the rocky shore.

“What is it you need, Thuri?” Aragorn asked, his voice tired as he looked out into the tangle of trees that lined the western bank of the Anduin. “Have you a complaint about my chosen path?”

“No, my lord,” she said softly, catching his flinch at the title but pressing on. “I come to offer a solution, if you will take it.”

_ Must you? _ The question Lady Galadriel had asked of her had echoed uncomfortably in her mind in the long hours on the river, and Holly was starting to feel that something in her path had changed. Her certainty that she would see the Ring destroyed was no longer firm and unshakable, allowing her to make this offer without choking on it.

He glanced at her, and she took it as permission to speak. “I think the entire company knows that you are torn between your duty to the Fellowship and your duty to your people,” Holly murmured, choosing each word carefully. She was still not one for diplomacy, but Hermione had browbeaten  _ some  _ tact into her over the years. “But you are not the only one present who is sworn into the service of the northern kingdom. Send me in your stead on whichever path you think I might do the most good.”

She could hear the immediate argument on his lips as he drew in a breath, and she held her hand up. “I am a weapon to be wielded on behalf of the Free Peoples and sworn to your cause. Wield me in the way that best suits your purposes.”

Aragorn looked taken aback by her pronouncement. “You are not a tool,” he said, his voice low as he moved towards her, closing the distance between them so that none of the others would be able to overhear. “You are one of the Free People.”

It was a sweet sentiment, but she was old, far older than she had ever thought she might be, and this was not her first war. “I was forged for a war my people fought, and when I had survived against the odds, I found there was no further use for weapons. A sword does not cease to be a sword when the battle ends, and it was too late to reforge myself. I swore my oath to you, and I know my duty. Send me in your place on the path you cannot tread, and I will be your sword.”

“I cannot ask this of you,” Aragorn said bitterly, voice low and fierce. “ _ Nobody _ has the right to ask it of you.”

“Whether it is right or it is wrong, I am what I am.” Holly had made her peace with it long before. “I am a weapon of the Free Peoples and I am meant to be wielded for their good.  _ Wield me _ .”

His face was stern as he turned away and called for Legolas. “Stay here with the others and guard the camp,” he ordered as the elf approached. “We will go and look for a way forward as the fog lifts.”

Leaving instructions on their path forward if neither should return, he and Legolas disappeared down the bank, and Holly returned to her boat, irritated that he hadn’t taken the out she had offered him. Some malice awaited them in the coming days, she could feel it in her bones, the way she had felt the wakening of the Balrog, though she knew not what it was as they passed through the gates of Moria. If she thought her intuition could save them whatever grief lay ahead, she would speak of it, but the same restraint that had held her tongue in the darkness of the mines held it here. Nothing she could offer would be of any help or comfort to the company; they all knew that danger encircled them, growing more perilous with each step.

When they did return, they came with news of a portage, and Holly set to work with a will, helping to empty the boats and weaving a featherlight charm into the wood as best as she could. It struggled to take hold; likely the wood of Lothlorien had absorbed some of the Lady’s magic, though they were many kilometers distant from its borders. But she managed to make it so that Boromir and Aragorn might bear one boat down the path, and she and Legolas might bear the other, and the young hobbits and Gimli bore the third, while Sam and Frodo helped carry the excess supplies that the boats had been stocked with. It was slow going, down to the lawn at the southern landing, and the fog that drifted across their path was as much of a hindrance as the briars and crumbling stone. Yet they reached the landing without being set upon, and set up camp.as darkness began to drift over them, the day having passed in what felt like a thought.

The company allowed itself a night of rest, undisturbed by nothing more troubling than a pre-dawn drizzle. Holly knew she slept restlessly, but couldn’t isolate any more from her dreams, which she suspected were warnings to go with the doom settled in her bones. Her mind was only half on her surroundings as they entered the boats and drifted down the river, the rapids of Sarn Gebir behind them speeding their way. Rain fell, and she drew the hood of her cloak up to cover her face, but Holly moved on autopilot, trying to sort through the maze of conflicting and unhelpful warnings she was picking up from some sense she had not thought she possessed. This was far beyond her scant divinatory talent for knowing her path, this boarded on foresight.

_ I am no Seer _ ! She raged as she dipped her paddle into the river, unsure of who she was addressing.  _ This is not my gift; why do I feel the portents? _

No answer came, not that she expected one, but all thoughts of impending doom and growing malice were driven out of her head by the sight of the two pillars standing before them.

Having spent her first years in Middle Earth in Aughaire, with the shadow of Angmar and its crude structures, the ruined North Kingdom was one of the more beautiful sights, even the darkened fields before Fornost where ridden countless times before she faked her death there. Over the years she had occasionally joined Calenglad’s outpost in their efforts to keep the Angmarim from plundering Annuminus, and even ruined, the city had taken her breath away.

But the statues that stood before her now surpassed even the mostly-intact ones at the High King’s Crossing on the north road from the borders of the Shire, towering over them as they passed between the twin pillars, even though they themselves showed the unkind passage of time. 

“We look upon the likenesses of Isildur and Anarion,” Legolas murmured as the river swept them along. Holly bowed her head in reverence as the ancient sentinels kept their watch over the passage to the North. She could only imagine what Aragorn must feel at the sight; this was his lineage, his birthright.

They emerged onto a great lake, three great peaks waiting for them at the opposite end, the distant roar of Rauros carried across the water on the wind. There they drifted for the rest of the day, not breaking for the midday meal but choosing to eat sparingly from the elvish  _ lembas _ as they drifted, until evening began to fall and Aragorn led them to a grassy lawn on the western shores. There they made camp, but Holly struggled to find rest. She heard Aragorn’s restlessness as well, and he and Frodo spoke quietly in the wee hours of the morning when Aragorn woke during Frodo’s watch. For her part, she passed the night silently, wrapped in her cloak, trying to pull as much sleep as she could from the watchful hours. Doom still weighed heavily on her shoulders, much as it had that fateful day when Gandalf had fallen in Moria.

As dawn began to show over the horizon, she found herself slipping off into true sleep.

* * *

She found herself in extensive gardens, the scent of night-blooming flowers heavy on the air. Looking around, she saw endless stretches of silvery willow trees and an expansive lake stretching out at her feet, which were bare as she stood ankle deep in the cool dewy grass.

“You are far from home Harry Potter.”

When she turned, feeling as if she  _ ought _ to be startled by an unfamiliar voice behind her, Holly saw a shadowy figure standing there, hands tucked in his sleeves. His features seemed blurred, indistinct, but she felt only a sense of trust and peace from the figure. “I have not heard that name in decades.”

There was a slight laugh. “Walk with me in my gardens.”

She fell into step with him as he started around the shores of the lake she had found herself standing at. After several paces, he spoke again. “I have thought long and hard about whether this is advisable, but I find myself coming back to the same conclusion, no matter how hard the others might argue for or against their position. Yet I fear I may have been too late.”

“Something threatens the Fellowship,” Holly murmured, the words bitter in her mouth as the weight of doom fell upon her shoulders, not having noticed its absence until it returned. “Beyond the obvious threat.”

“I speak to you today not for your Fellowship’s sake, but for your own,” he murmured, glancing out over the lake. “Initially my sister-in-law was quite put out by your entrance into our world, but as the pattern has settled, she has come around. You are one of the  _ Atani _ , yet you have life unchanging as the  _ Quendi _ . It is against the patterns laid out by the song, but you have quickly become part of the strains. Much like those you travel with, you will shape what is to come.”

Holly wanted to ask a thousand questions, to interrogate him until he gave her the answers, but she held her tongue. Few times in her life had she touched something she could only describe as  _ other _ , and each time had been an eye-opening experience. This seemed to be much like those, and if she was patient, she would find out why she had been called to this place.

Her guide seemed to sense some of her thoughts. “You have learned patience,” he said, with a hint of a laugh in his voice. “And I will not test its strength much longer. There is much I cannot say, much I am not familiar with. But listen to me, Harry Potter, and heed my counsel.”

They halted along the lakeshore, in the shade of one of the silvery willows. “You have been granted a terrible gift and a heavy burden,” he began, turning to face her. “And like all gifts, it can be abused. The objects you bear, those that disrupt the natural order, they are objects of _fëa_. As such, you also might influence the _fëa_ of others. But you must remember. It is the will of Eru that the _Quendi_ return here at the sundaring of _hröa_ and _fëa_ and the _Atani_ go beyond. For those meant to depart to linger indefinitely, and one meant to linger until they cross the seas to depart entirely would upset the balance of things in a way none of us dare risk.”

She knew those words, had learned them sitting with Laerdan in the dark nights in Aughaire as he told her stories from beyond the Western Sea in days unnumbered. It had been when she was trying to orient herself in the mythos of Middle Earth, so different yet similar to many of the predominant religions and traditions she had been exposed to. “You’re saying that the Hallows, my curse, allows me to handle souls?”

“Not to handle,” the Vala said, for who else could he be? “You alone in  _ Eä _ are capable of sundering  _ fëa _ and  _ hröa _ , yet you are also capable of binding them together. It is a power not even granted to my fellows and I.”

“I think I’m going to need a bit to wrap my head around this,” Holly murmured, trying to understand. She could influence the connection between body and soul?

  
“Our time draws near to a close,” he said as the world around them began to fade. “Remember, Harry Potter. It is the fate decreed by Eru that all  _ Quendi _ should return to this land, and all  _ Atani _ should go beyond. Even you cannot prevent it. And  _ fëa _ cannot exist in a broken  _ hröa _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Atani: "second folk", the Quenya term for men/humans  
> Quendi: elves (Q)  
> fëa: spirit, soul (Q)  
> hröa: body, flesh (Q)
> 
> We're just about halfway through and I have an absolute myriad of sequel ideas in progress for this. Would you be interested in seeing a general (non-spoilers) list of concepts to help me settle on which one I end up posting next, or would you rather it be a surprise?


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Answer me, Son of Denethor.”

**Chapter Ten:**

When she woke, the rest of the company had gathered around the tiny fire they had dared risk, eating sparingly of their provisions. Holly joined them, taking the wafer of  _ lembas _ offered to her, still deep in thought. The dream preyed upon her mind, sending it spinning as she tried to interpret what it meant for her, and for the Fellowship and the Quest.

Vaguely, she heard Aragorn’s speech to the rest of the company, tuning in to hear Aragorn charge Frodo with the decision of the Company’s path to Mordor. As Frodo asked for time, and Aragorn granted an hour’s delay, something Aragorn had said caught her attention.  _ I do not know what design or hope he had for this hour _ . 

No, Gandalf had not spoken of his plans beyond Moria to any of them in life, but as she felt for the familiar weight of the Resurrection Stone in her pocket, she wondered if he might not tell her in death.

Catching Aragorn’s eye as he looked out over the lake, she told him that she was going to wander into the woods, just out of immediate earshot of the camp, using the hand signs she had learned as a Ranger. He raised his eyebrow, but signed his acquiescence, and she slipped off while the Company was busy not looking at each other or in the direction Frodo had wandered off to.

In the shadows of the trees, she withdrew the Stone from her pocket, heart in her throat. Holly hadn’t used it since the night she walked to her death in the Forbidden Forest, not daring to risk Cadmus’s folly falling upon her head as well. Taking a deep breath, Holly turned the stone thrice in her hand, closing her eyes on the last turn, and opening them once more as she felt the air around her grow heavy with magic, the staff strapped to her back heating slightly in response as she felt the familiar weight of the cloak settle about her shoulders, as if it was there for her to wrap herself in.

To her surprise, there was no wizard waiting for her, only the familiar shadow of a Ranger long dead.

“Faredir,” she said, scowling. “I was hoping to speak with Mithrandir.”

“I’m afraid I’m the only one available right now,” the man said gently. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Why can’t I speak with him?”

“You’re not going to say  _ I told you so _ ?” Faredir asked, tipping his head to study her with a sad smile. “The years have mellowed you, Bronach.”

“I don’t have time for this,” she hissed, hands clenching into fists. “The Dark One is rising and I need to ask Gandalf what his plans were after we made it over the mountains!”

“You don’t have much time,” he agreed, reaching out as if to touch her, but letting his insubstantial hand drop to his side just before it reached her. “Things are in motion that not even the Valar can alter. Mithrandir cannot answer your call.”

Fighting the urge to throw the Resurrection Stone into the lake, Holly took a deep breath and shifted her focus. “You know, I told you not to go. I told Golodir not to go. Hell, I told  _ Lareden _ .”

Faredir’s smile was wry, but still sad. “I remember. But Laerdan and Golodir knew the risks. We all did. Aragorn and Gilraen had forbidden us to even go up into Aughaire, but we had. And I can’t bring myself to regret it.”

“I went south,” she said, the words spilling out of her like the rapids of Sarn Gebir behind them. “I saw Esteldin, met Halbarad and Daervunn and those that live there. I swore myself to Aragorn’s service. I rode across the Fields of Fornost and stood on the shores of Nenuial. Annuminas at sunset is as beautiful as you described it being. I danced at the spring bonfires at Tinnudir.”

“I’m glad you were able to see them,” Faredir murmured, reaching out again, his hand passing through her jawbone this time. “And I am glad that my chieftain has you at his side, though I wish you had a full company of my brethren alongside you both.”

“One day I’m going to tear those wretched stones down,” she promised as he began to fade away as she let the magic slip. “Before we left, word came to Rivendell from Esteldin. Apparently Corunir sent word from Aughaire.”

“He is not with me,” Faredir said, his voice growing softer as he faded. “Many of my brethren passed over the Rammas Deluon and kept going.”

“Then I will tear down those stones and find them.” Holly watched him fade away and stared into the trees for a long moment. She had buried Faredir after Golodir’s ill-fated attempt to go west into Angmar in the hopes of approaching Carn Dum from the side instead of a frontal assault. For him to come to her when she turned the stone, she knew that she had cared for him, likely more than most of those she had buried over the years.

Many men and women, good men and woman, had fallen during her years in Aughaire, and then in Esteldin. The nature of their work made it so; the enemy was ever growing in numbers, yet the number of Rangers declined each year. They were more thinly-spread year after year, and unless she was sent to one of the main outposts to help reinforce a garrison, she rarely got to know the other Rangers.

Shouts drew her attention, and she turned just in time to see the Company scatter in all directions. Merry and Pippin dashed by her into the trees, Legolas and Gimli both sped off in opposite directions, and Aragorn stalked forward, trying to wrangle the fleeing company.

He snapped at Boromir, the words indistinct at a distance, but the tone clear. Boromir passed her on his way into the trees as she backtracked towards Aragorn to find out what happened, and she felt the sense of dread deepening in her stomach at the sight of the grief-stricken face of the man of Gondor.

“Frodo has disappeared,” Aragorn said tightly, hand clenched around Anduril’s hilt. “There are orcs about, and Boromir claims that he confronted the hobbit and Frodo ran, using the Ring.”

Turning, he called to Sam, who had hurried near them. “Come with us, Sam! None of us should be alone.” As he set off towards the crumbling staircase beyond the lawn, Aragorn continued: “There is mischief about. I feel it. I am going to the top, to the Seat of Amon Hen, to see what may be seen. And look! It is as my heart guessed, Frodo went this way. Follow me, and keep your eyes open!”

Holly kept close to his heels, bow in hand, as they sped up the steps. At the landing at the top, she cast about for signs of Frodo’s flight, knowing that Aragorn had been correct in tracking the hobbit to the top of the stairs, but the tracks confused themselves as she could see Boromir’s frenzied search for the hobbit. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the other man climb up to the high seat on Amon Hen, and she left him to it. Instead, she looked out from the lesser height, trying to see if she could spot any of the others as they searched for their missing hobbit.

She nearly stumbled as a great horn rang out, reverberating in the hollows and crashing against the hills as the sense of doom which had been building all day crashed down upon her. Aragorn seemed to fly down from the summit of Amon Hen, Anduril bright in his hand. “The horn of Boromir! He is in need!” Murmuring something else to himself, he drew up short and looked around. “Where is Sam?”

Stopping next to him, Holly looked for the hobbit, trying to remember where she had last seen him. “I can’t remember him reaching the summit with us.”

Again the horn came, and Aragorn shook off his wondering and rushed down the steps. Holly followed, remembering that Boromir had gone off after the two younger hobbits. The further down they got, the louder the sound of orcs grew, and Boromir’s horn sounded over and over until it stopped entirely.

Somehow, the lack of sound was worse.

As she followed Aragorn, who charged through the trees, chasing the sound of retreating orcs, she prayed to whatever gods might hear her that they would reach Boromir and whoever he was protecting in time. But as they stumbled upon a glade, she knew they were too late.

The corpses of orcs lay piled about the glade, but thickest around where Boromir sat, back to a broad tree trunk with many arrows piercing him. His sword lay broken, the hilt still clutched in his hand, the horn which had sounded so stridently cloven in two at his side.

Aragorn crossed the glade without a second thought, dropping to his knees beside the fallen man. Holly lingered at first, scanning the trees for any lingering danger before she let her bow fall to her side and hurried to kneel next to Aragorn and Boromir.

“Farewell Aragorn!” Boromir was saying as she approached. “Go to Minas Tirith and save my people! I have failed.”

“No,” Aragorn said, but Holly found herself moving before she could truly think of what she was doing. Resting one hand on the man’s chest, careful not to jar any of the arrows, she used her other hand to force him to look her in the eye.

“Can you hear me?” she demanded, ears filled with a heartbeat that she couldn’t tell whether it was his or hers. “Answer me, Son of Denethor.”

“I...can hear you,” he gasped out, eyes flicking to hers. “Lady Wizard.”

“You stand at a crossroads.” Her voice felt as if it was not her own, the words placed there by an unseen hand. Her dream from the early hours of the morning rang in her bones.

_...yet you are also capable of binding them together. _

_ Fëa _ and  _ Hröa _ . Soul and Body.

“Hearken to me, Son of Denethor,” she commanded, hope growing in her heart. “I know not what strength is within my hands, but I may spare you this death if I might. But I need you to choose it. Boromir, son of Denethor, Man of Gondor, do you choose life?”

For a moment it looked as if he was going to deny it, but he closed his eyes and nodded, and she let her magic pour out.

Healing had never been something she had studied, never been an interest of hers beyond the basics needed to patch herself or Teddy up from minor injuries, but if there was one thing the loss of her wand had taught her, it was that intent  _ mattered _ . So she focused on grasping Boromir’s fading soul, tethering it tightly to the body, the staff on her back growing warmer and warmer as she funneled magic between them, using her free hand to carefully draw out the arrows and healing the damage left in their wake. Holly lost track of time and everything around her as she worked, focused on the man in front of her in the way that she had reserved for great works of magic, releasing other spells in order to funnel that magic to him, to bolster his failing body and repair it.

When she drew back, she felt lightheaded, but his color was better and his breathing even. Sinking back on her haunches, she watched as his eyes fluttered open, seeing first Aragorn’s face, and then her own.

“You have great power, Mistress Wizard,” he said, breathless as if he had just run a great distance. “I owe you my life.”

“I am owed  _ nothing _ ,” she said, swallowing hard. “Give your thanks to the Master of Visions and Dreams who spoke to me of this gift in time to save you from the Halls of Mandos. Live on, and serve my Lord as Steward of the White City.”

Boromir seemed to remember Aragorn at that moment, and he scrambled to kneel before the other man, catching both of them off guard. As he steadied himself, Boromir bowed his head in supplication. “I have confessed my crimes to you, my lord, so that you might know the man that I was on my deathbed. Now I wait for your judgement.”

Aragorn looked stunned beyond belief, but gathered himself quickly. “Boromir, Son of Denethor, Man of Gondor,” he began, and Holly noticed Legolas and Gimli draw closer, though when they arrived she did not know. “Hear now the judgement you have asked from me, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the  _ Dunedain _ of the North and heir of Isildur. You have confessed to assaulting Frodo, son of Drogo, who bears the doom of Middle Earth forward into the fire. You have confessed that you attempted to take his burden, which was not offered to you. This is my judgement: you shall accompany the Company in whichever paths it walks, until the end of the world, or the salvation of it, ensuring it with your life. Only then will you be released from his service. Should you fail again-”

“Should I fail again,” Boromir said hoarsely, not lifting his eyes from the ground, “I will take my own life in payment for my deeds.”

“I call on you, Legolas, son of Thranduil, Gimli son of Gloin, and Thuri, Ranger of the North, to bear witness to my judgement,” Aragorn said, and Holly bowed her head in agreement. It was a fair punishment, one that would prevent unnecessary loss of life if Boromir’s newfound resolve held true.

“Now, we must find Frodo, and Sam,” Aragorn said, turning from where Boromir knelt. “By Boromir’s report, the orcs have carried off Merry and Pippen, but we must determine the fate of the other two before we decide our path.”

* * *

They searched the glade, Legolas and Holly searching out unbroken arrows to replenish their quivers with, while Gimli, Boromir, and Aragorn searched the bodies of the orcs. Boromir was the one to find the daggers borne by Merry and Pippin, but Aragorn was preoccupied with a badge found on the orcs.

Taking one from him as he passed it to her, Holly examined it, finding a white hand and the elvish rune  _ silme _ . “S, for Saruman?” she wondered, as Gimli claimed it for Sauron. Distractedly, she passed the badge to Legolas and returned to searching out suitable arrows, trying to keep her hands steady.

She did not feel beyond drained from the exertion of magic as she had expected, but there was a bone-deep weariness that had settled over her. Either working in concert with the Hallows helped lessen the impact on her, or she drew more from Kreacher, who yet resided in the comparatively magic-rich valley of Imladris, but she could continue on without immediate need for rest.

And then her bare fingertips brushed the ground as she knelt to retrieve an arrow, and she felt the fading echoes of a place that had once brimmed with magic, only to have been recently depleted. Holly glanced about, wondering why this place had the echoes of magic, and then caught a glimpse of Amon Hen through a gap in the trees. The Hill of Sight. Perhaps it meant more than just a strategic vantage point, or had meant more at one point. 

It certainly was strange, but she wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Eventually, they left the glade and the fallen orcs behind them, returning to their camp, where they found one of their boats missing and two of the packs. Almost immediately, she suspected what had happened, but listened to Aragorn work it out. She had once been in Frodo’s position, had wanted to sneak off on her own to do what must be done lest she bring her friends into danger with her. But much like Ron and Hermione, Sam would not let Frodo face the darkness alone, and though she wished they had waited, something within her knew that she was not meant to walk with the Ring anymore, though she wished to.

It was strange that she had felt so driven to accompany the Ring as she became aware of it in Bree so many months ago, only to let it turn aside from her now. But as she had told Galadriel in Lothlorien, she would listen to the whispers of Fate and turn aside from the road that the Ring walked, at least for now. Perhaps later her path would cross it, but her duty lay with her liege and the remainder of the company now, of that she was certain. 

With the others, she lightened her pack as much as she felt necessary, though her charms and enchantments held strong enough that it was light enough as it was. Together, they sought out the orc-trail, which led them clearly away from the river and to the west.

Aragorn seemed tireless and swift as he sprang through the trees, following the orc-pack that bore the mark of Saruman and had borne away Merry and Pippin. Legolas kept pace just behind him, but Holly fell in with Boromir and Gimli, girding herself for the race ahead. While they had not tarried overlong, the orcs still had a lead on them, and seemed to be unceasing.

* * *

Aragorn led them on, through dusk and nightfall, until the early hours before dawn when they paused briefly. Holly had been drawing on her reserves, just enough to keep exhaustion at bay, and she threw herself down gratefully on the dewy grass. Boromir too, seemed weary, but he continued steadily where other men might have complained and ceased. Gimli and Legolas said no word about the pace Aragorn set either.

Before they rose again to start, Holly rummaged in her pack, carefully withdrawing the vials she had hidden in a wad of her smallclothes. Taking one, she broke the seal and took a careful sip, no more than a single swallow. She then passed it to Boromir.

“Take it,” she urged quietly, glancing at the others, who seemed to be paying them little attention, focused on their own rest. “It will keep the strength in your limbs longer. Only a swallow now; I do not have much left.”

She had kept a reasonably well stocked potions cabinet when she had dwelt at Grimmauld Place, and all of them had been packed with her belongings when she and Kreacher had prepared to flee, only for mishap to land them outside of Aughaire. But magical ingredients had been hard to come by, so she had used the potions sparingly, knowing that once they were gone, they were difficult to replace. For the journey, she had allowed herself two invigoration draughts, and thanks to Gandalf’s own offer of the elvish potion in Moria, she hadn’t had to use them until now.

If she knew if elvish and dwarven constitutions would accept magical healing, she would offer it to Legolas and Gimli. As it was, she was only reasonably certain that she wouldn’t poison Boromir. There had only been a few cases where she had felt called upon to use her stock on the Rangers, but never the invigorating draught. Yet the  _ dunedain _ had all survived, and the potions had given the intended effect, so she felt justified in her mild experimentation.

As it was though, she would  _ not _ be offering the potion to Aragorn until it had proven safe for Boromir.

They rose up again a short while later, carrying on down through the ridged hills. Here they spread out, looking for tracks or other signs of the orc company’s passage through the lands, but it was Legolas who found the dead orcs. Beyond the bodies, there was little trace of whatever had happened, but as Aragorn cast about, he found the rest of the pack’s trail along a thin stream, and they sped up the grey hill, ignoring the brisk breeze and pale light of the rising dawn. 

From atop the hill, in the distance they could see a mountain range. Beside her, Boromir sighed, and Aragorn cried out:

_ Gondor! Gondor, between the Mountains and the Sea! _

_ West Wind blew there; the light upon the Silver Tree _

_ Fell like bright rain in gardens of the Kings of old. _

_ O proud walls! White towers! O wingéd crown and throne of gold! _

_ O Gondor, Gondor! Shall Men behold the Silver Tree, _

_ Or West Wind blow again between the Mountains and the Sea? _

“In the courtyard,” Boromir said slowly, the first he had spoken since Aragorn had proclaimed his judgement, “there is a barren tree. As I child, I had forsaken all hope of it blooming once more in the face of the growing darkness. Yet now I find that hope rekindled, and I know in my heart that one day all of Gondor will see the White Tree, hale and well once more.”

Silently, Aragorn inclined his head to the man, who was still gazing towards the distant mountains, and then he ordered the Company to be off again.

* * *

Eventually they came down out of the cliffs’ edges, and out onto a great green expanse. Legolas looked relieved, and Holly felt ages lighter than she could remember being for a long time, at least outside the protected havens of Lothlorien and Imladris. If their pursuit of Merry and Pippen hadn’t been so dire, she would have shucked her boots and dug her feet into the dirt and tried to see if there was magic in the roots, or if what she felt was simply the absence of darkness.

Aragorn did not let them linger long, setting off and forcing the rest of them to follow after. He was by far the leader, as they formed roughly into a single file line, despite the wide openness of the plains before them, though Legolas kept pace on his heels. Gimli followed after, stoic in the face of unrelenting haste, and Holly dropped back to the end of the line, allowing Boromir to go in front of her. Legolas was beyond swift, but if she needed to put arrow to bow, she wished to have an extra second to do so.

At one point, Aragorn halted them, bidding them remain on the bruised, ugly path the orc-feet had tramped through the lush grasses, and Holly took the moment to sip from her waterskin, offering it to Boromir and the others, who shook their heads, producing their own. As he returned to them, she noticed the smaller footprints arcing out from the main trail, and her heart clenched in fear. But Aragorn looked joyful, showing them a brooch that glittered, even underneath the mud.

“Not idly do the leaves of Lorien fall,” Aragorn declared, and Holly found herself breathing easier, despite the long run and weariness dogging her limbs. At least one of the hobbits, Pippin if the others were correct about the tracks, was alive and well enough to move. As the others passed the broach about, she knelt, stripped off her glove, and pressed her hand into the soil.

There weren’t many impressions that she could sense; always before she had tuned her senses towards magic instead of life. When she lived in Angmar, and the hills could seem riddled with Angmarim sorcerers at times, it had quite often meant the difference between life and death, knowing if there was a sorcerer or their trap around the next corner. Upon moving south, she had less need of the skill, and mostly focused on tapping old reserves of magic, leftovers from the once mighty kingdom that had sprawled over the lands. Occasionally she dealt with sorcerers or other bits of nastiness that the Witch-King sent south of Angmar, but only when she was called in to help Calenglad and his wardens clear out the latest rush on Annuminas.

Here, in the plains of Rohan, there was little magic, but much less darkness, at least in these plains, something she hadn’t realized she’d been able to sense until it was absent. Vaguely, she wondered why, but she set that thought aside, trying to see if she could sense any violence at this spot, any indication that Pippin or Merry had paid for Pippin’s stunt.

Thankfully, she felt nothing, nothing but the pounding of heavy feet and the cries of the grass that had been stomped into the mud. There was no blood spilt on this soil.

They continued on, through noon and afternoon, up until the gloaming was truly settled upon them. As they gathered around him, Aragorn said: “We have come at last to a hard choice. Shall we rest by night, or shall we go on while our will and strength hold?”

“Unless our enemies rest also, they will leave us far behind, if we stay to sleep,” said Legolas.

“Surely even orcs must pause on the march?” said Gimli.

“Seldom will orcs journey in the open under the sun, yet these have done so,” Boromir murmured quietly, looking up from where he had bent over, his hands on his knees. Holly took a careful look at him, trying to determine whether he was just as weary as she was, or if something else was the matter. It had only been a day ago that he had been at death’s door, and she had never done something so daring with magic before. There was no way to predict what the aftereffects would be. “Certainly they will not rest by night.”

Legolas and Gimli debated over the Company’s ability to follow the trail in the absence of the sun, but their words were drowned out by the rushing in her ears, and she found herself blinking spots from her eyes.

_ Oh _ , she thought, carefully lowering herself to the ground, knowing that if she didn’t, her body would force the issue.  _ That’s magical exhaustion _ .

As she tucked her head between her knees, she counted her breaths and tried to suss out why it was hitting her now. Idly, she rested a hand in the grass, her bare fingertips brushing against the earth, and she realized that Amon Hen had indeed had old magic in the ground that Rohan lacked. When she healed Boromir, she had to draw upon that, and upon her ties to Kreacher, but now, attempting to keep up with her fleet-footed chieftain, she had been unconsciously drawing on her own reserves.

“Look at her,” she heard Boromir saying, and Holly tried to look up, only to thrust her head back between her knees as everything spun around her at the movement. “She cannot go on.”

“Go on without me if you can,” Holly managed to say between breaths. “I will follow when I am able. Do not tarry on my account.” She would not forgive herself if something happened to the two hobbits because the Company stopped to pander to her wellbeing. 

“We will rest here,” Aragorn declared above her, and as the others seemed to be settling themselves on the grass, she felt his hand on her shoulder. “Are you well?”

“Merely exhausted,” she murmured, resting her temple against her knee. “I will be well enough to go on in the morning.” Even if she had to risk another mouthful of the invigoration draught.

“Is this like after the Bruinen?” he asked. “Can you not take some of that drink your assistant brought you? Could he help you?”

She smiled, even knowing he could not see it. “I believe I drew heavily from him, to heal Boromir. Even so, I could not ask him to cross the mountains. Without the magic tapped by one of us being in Imladris, he would not be able to return there, and he cannot keep pace with us. Nor can we afford to carry him.”

“And the drink he gave you then? Do you have it now?”

“It needs to be hot, in order to function immediately and most effectively,” Holly said, thinking fondly of her tea blend. “And we cannot risk a fire, not on these open plains. Of course, that I did not bring it with me means that it’s a moot point either way. There is another draft that I have that I will drink of when we begin again; I gave some to Boromir as well when we stopped at dawn. Since he has borne it well, I will offer it to him again when we begin, and to you if you wish it. I do not know if it would be effective, or I would offer it to Legolas and Gimli.”

“A draft?” 

“Aye,” she murmured, only just remembering not to nod. “A potion, my people called them. It is one made before I arrived in Aughaire, one I cannot make more of, and therefore keep to use sparingly. They are not designed to work on those not like me, and might be toxic, but this one is safe enough.”

“Sleep now,” Aragorn said, and she felt his hand lift from her shoulder. “We go on again when dawn arrives.”

* * *

When she woke again, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli were speaking quietly, but Boromir lay on the ground not too far from her, still wrapped in his cloak. Sitting up, she leaned over to wake him, but paused as she saw his face. Unburdened by worry in sleep, he seemed much younger than the rest of them.

The moment passed, and she shook his shoulder carefully, certain that she could get out of range if he startled awake. “Peace,” she murmured as his eyes snapped open, the lines of weariness and regret already forming. “It is not yet dawn, but I believe we are to be away again soon.”

“My thanks,” he replied, sitting up and reaching for his pack, which had been tucked into his side as he slept. Taking a packet of  _ lembas _ , he broke off a corner and offered it to her. Holly took it and ate it quickly as she rummaged in her own pack for her opened vial of invigoration draught. Her magical exhaustion had passed during the night hours, but her limbs ached with weariness still.

“Just a mouthful,” she reminded Boromir as she passed him the vial. “No more.”

He nodded, swallowing his own dose before starting on a bit of  _ lembas _ . Rising, Holly bore the vial over to Aragorn. “My lord,” she said as he stepped away from Legolas and Gimli to meet her. “This draught strengthens one’s limbs and allows you to continue on when you feel you may go no further. Just one mouthful should bolster your strength for the day.”

Aragorn took the vial and studied it, and then took a mouthful before passing it back to her. “Thank you,” he said, his face shadowed. “Legolas fears that our quarry has passed beyond his sight during the night. The earth speaks little of those going about on two feet, but much of the pounding of hooves. I do not know what this means.”

“I feel little, though my skill was ever with magic, not with life,” Holly admitted. “In this land, where no men of Numenor, nor elves, made their dwelling, my senses are deadened, though I can say that there is an absence of a shadow that is ever-present in the north.”

Looking grim, he nodded, and turned back to the others, chivvying them up and onwards. Holly recorked her vial and stowed it safely in her gear before picking up her bow and falling in at the back of the line.

All day they ran, relying on some hidden reserve within them, and the strength granted by  _ lembas _ to keep them moving forward. As they moved further into Rohan, Holly felt a sense of disquiet gnawing on her nerves. They seldom spoke of the lands to the east in the Ranger camps, but she had heard of the great horses of Rohan, and the horse lords who tended them. Where were the herds? Why were such lush lands left empty of man and beast? 

Every step seemed to grow just a hair more difficult, and her heart slowly filled with dread, her previous burden falling all the more heavily on her shoulders for its brief absence. Holly gritted her teeth and ran forward, doing her best to keep her breathing steady, placing one foot in front of the next. The hobbits depended on them, and she would not fail. She would not be the reason the company stopped, would not be dead weight for them to carry.

Once more they stopped as dusk fell, and Holly wrapped herself in her cloak and listened to the others speak of their doubts, their fears, and the oppressive will that seemed to be a weight around their ankles, setting itself against them. She had no counsel to offer, no wisdom gleaned from rock or earth to share.

For the first time, she wondered if she would not be better off having remained in the north with her brethren. Could she have done more if she had not insisted on following Frodo and the horcrux he bore? He was beyond their aid now, and in their travels, she could not think of one instance where she had been useful to the company beyond what any other Ranger or elf could have offered.

Her heart ached as she thought of Halbarad and the others in the northlands, and she wondered if Elrond’s trusted messengers had reached Aughaire, had found Corunir and what news he bore of Golodir’s company. Surely she ought to have petitioned Aragorn to go  _ north _ , where her people were, where she could be of use, instead of being another body in the Fellowship chosen to escort Frodo.

Lying down, she wrapped herself in her cloak and did her best to empty her mind. Snape would have sneered at her for how long it took, but she reached the state and let herself slip into sleep, knowing that the road would be no easier at dawn.

* * *

“Awake! Awake!” Legolas was crying as she rose up out of the grey depths of sleep, bow in hand, fearing an attack. “It is a red dawn! Strange things await us by the eaves of the forest. Good or evil, I do not know; but we are called. Awake!”

There was barely enough time for another mouthful of the invigoration draught, the last of it split between all three of the human members of the company, and then they were moving again. Holly shoved a fragment of lembas in her mouth, chewing carefully as she ran, knowing that she would need its strength if she were to keep the pace.

They came upon a strand of hills not long before noon, and found a place where their quarry had rested, but it was an old camp, nearly a day and a half old, and Holly felt her hope of rescuing the hobbits before they reached Isengard fading rapidly. 

Her fading hope seemed reflected in the company’s bearing; no more did Aragorn leap out at their head, but he marched on grimly, face set as he guided them through the plains. Gimli and Legolas followed suit, and Holly found herself walking next to Boromir, who looked haggard with grief.

“Do not blame yourself,” she told him as they stopped at dusk, sitting next to him. “You did not live by abandoning your duties, but by the grace of the Valar.”

To her surprise, the words gave her hope. By being at Parth Galen that day, she had made a difference. Without her magic, without her being the Master of Death, Boromir would have passed into the Halls of Mandos and whatever lies beyond. But her sleep was restless and disturbed, and she woke often to find Legolas moving quietly between where she and the others lay, singing softly in Sindarin. When the morning came, she climbed to her feet gladly, wishing to be off so that she might no longer have the time to dread what might await the hobbits.

There was one last vial of invigoration draught in her pack, but she kept it untouched. They would have to go on without it; and save it for when the need was most dire. If, by some good fortune, they came upon their quarry, she would provide it so that they would not need to fear being outmatched due to weariness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late posting- life is rather chaotic for me at the moment. I'll try to keep to a Friday posting schedule, but may slip into Saturdays for the next few weeks.quote  
> Also a reminder- anything that sounds like Tolkien is quoted from the books.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "These are indeed strange days."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay; apparently I can't finish getting a house ready and everything moved over while maintaining my posting schedule. Barring any further unforseen delays, we should be back to Fridays!

**Chapter Eleven:**

In the morning, they could see the shadows of Fangorn Forest across the wide plains of Rohan, and the orc trail stretching out far beyond them, following the river that Aragorn named as the Entwash. 

But before they could set off, Aragorn peered off into the distance, before throwing himself on the ground. Legolas looked, but before he spoke, Aragorn was up on his feet again.

“Riders! Many riders on swift steeds are coming towards us!.”

“Yes,” said Legolas, “there are one hundred and five.Yellow is their hair, and bright are their spears.Their leader is very tall.”

Holly found herself smiling slightly. “Keen are the eyes of the elves.”

“Nay! the riders are little more than five leagues distant.” Legolas answered, and Aragorn declared they would stay where they were, and allow the riders to come to them. Holly resettled herself on the grass, pulling out a bit of  _ lembas _ and nibbling on it. She wasn’t quite hungry, but she knew it would give her strength, and strength was sorely needed.

The others spoke amongst themselves, of Rohan, of their fears for the hobbits, but Holly remained still and quiet, wrapped in her cloak. She had heard tales of the horse lords around the fires of the Rangers, mostly of their horses, but of the men themselves. They were said to be proud, but generous, bold...she had thought at the time that they sounded much like Gryffindors, or at least the proclaimed ideals of her former house.

As she watched the horsemen drawing nearer, she realized that she would get a chance to decide for herself, which was both intriguing and frightening. The horses were certainly the equal of any she had seen in Elrond’s stable, strong muscles bunched under gleaming coats, well cared for and proud. Their riders seemed nearly one with their mounts, tall men in burnished mail, with long pale hair that mimicked the flow of the horses' tails as they rode.

Onwards they rode, not heeding Holly and the others where they sat in the grass, but just as they were about to pass them, Aragorn rose and cried out: “What news from the North, Riders of Rohan?”

In an instant, the riders were circling them, and a thicket of spears surrounded Holly and the others on all sides as they got to their feet. Boromir stood quietly at her shoulder, more subdued than Holly had expected, given Gondor’s proximity to Rohan, and Aragorn was relaxed, even though the lead rider, a white horsetail flying from his helmet, was leveling a spear at him. Gritting her teeth, Holly kept her peace. She was inclined to step between the spearpoint and her liege lord, but Aragorn’s slight hand movement kept her back, kept her standing next to Boromir.

“Who are you, and what are you doing in this land?” the rider asked, and Boromir seemed to twitch in recognition. Holly glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye, but he held his tongue, seemingly content to let Aragorn take the lead.

“I am called Strider,” answered Aragorn. “I came out of the north. I am hunting orcs.”

She raised her eyebrow as Aragorn gave his Ranger name, but she couldn’t fault his caution. At least the rider was dismounting to get a closer look, and the spear was no longer leveled as his chest. Warily, Holly listened to the two of them talk, and then the rider turned to the rest of them, gathered behind Aragorn.

“And why do you not speak?” he demanded, eyeing them suspiciously. “Why do you hold your tongues?”

Glancing at Gimli’s thunderous expression, Holly decided that someone else had best intercede, and since neither Legolas nor Boromir seemed inclined to, she stepped forward, stopping just at Aragorn’s shoulder. “Because you were speaking with he who leads us,” she retorted coldly, remembering the trick to shaping her vocal chords to produce a slightly deeper voice at the last moment. “We were not asked to speak, and the more tongues that wag, the more confused a conversation becomes.”

“What is your name?” the Rider demanded, his grip on his spear tightening.

“I am Thuri,” she answered, keeping her voice flat. “My companions are Gimli, son of Gloin, of Erebor, Legolas Thranduilion of the Woodland Realm, and Boromir, son of Denethor. What is your name, Rider of Rohan?”

“Boromir?” the rider said, peering closer at the man. “That is the son of Gondor’s Steward. What news do you bring us? Who have you returned with? We had thought you lost, given no news of your comings and goings after you left us, since your horse came back riderless.”

The man hesitated, but stepped forward at Aragorn’s nod, coming even with her shoulder again. “Eomer, son of Eomund, it is good to see you well. My companions and I have pursued an orc pack from Rauros, from the East Wall. Have you news of them?”

Eomer’s eyes darted between Aragorn and Boromir at the movement, but they settled on Boromir once more. “You need not pursue them further. The orcs are destroyed.”

Holly could not help but glance over the company of riders, searching for hobbit-forms concealed behind larger men, but there were no signs. The others seemed to be doing much the same, and Aragorn spoke once more. “Did you search the slain? Were there no bodies other than those of orc-kind? The orcs we pursued took two of our number captive; it is for their sake that we have journeyed these four days from the shadow of Tol Brandir with little rest nor comfort.

“On foot?” cried Eomer.

“Yes, even as you see us,” Aragorn said, cutting in before the snide remark slipped past Holly’s lips, which was probably for the best.

“Strider is too poor a name! Wingfoot I name you. This deed of yours ought to be sung in many a hall! Whom do you serve? At whose command have you set forth?”

Glancing at Aragorn out of the corner of her eye, Holly moved to step forward. He closed his eyes briefly, and then nodded, opening them as she moved just before him. “He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and is called Elessar, the Elfstone, Dunadan, the heir of Isildur Elendil’s son of Gondor! Bearer of the Sword that was Broken and is now forged again!”

Her voice rang out over the company, and a number of men startled to hear her proclamation, their horses fidgeting underfoot. For a long moment, everyone was silent, but for the creak of leather and the jangle of bits and other metal on the tack.

Eomer was first to break the silence. “These are indeed strange days. Dreams and legends spring to life out of the grass. What doom do you bring out of the North?”

Holly stepped back to stand next to Boromir once more, listening as Aragorn and Eomer obliquely discussed the coming of the Company from Imladris, and the loss of Merry and Pippin at Parth Galen. Eventually, the riders moved apart from where Eomer and Aragorn stood, and Holly slipped behind Boromir, nudging him into her place at Aragorn’s shoulder, and wove a weak Notice-Me-Not around her before she slipped away to follow.

Boromir would be convinced to tell her what transpired between Aragorn and Eomer, and if not, she could likely get the news from the others. What Holly had learned over her years among the Rangers was that soldiers gossiped just as much as fishwives, and she was interested to hear what the Rohirrim would say.

“Isildur’s heir,” one man said as she drew near the group. “What times do we live in to see such a man come down out of the North?”

“To make the journey from Tol Brandir in four days is no mortal feat,” another said, his mount shifting uneasily beneath him. “The tales of Gondor claim their kings capable of feats beyond that of normal men.”

“And what of those he travels with?” a third demanded. “An elf, a dwarf, and two men! That is no company of a king.”

“ _ Thranduilion _ ,” the rider who seemed to be Eomer’s second said shortly. “I rarely studied the languages of the elves like the Prince and his cousin, but my mother made me learn some of it. Her foremother was from Dale, before the dragon came, and she made certain all of her descendents learn some of it, and my mother has kept that tradition. That elf is the son of the king, Thranduil, and likely his heir. He is no minor elf. And you forget that Boromir, son of Denethor is also in that group.”

Someone laughed humorlessly. “I’m sure his father will be pleased to see him there.”

“And the other two? The dwarf and the other man?”

“I am a Ranger of the North,” Holly said, letting her Notice-Me-Not slip away. “And the dwarf is the son of one who retook Erebor from the dragon Smaug.”

The entire group startled, and several hands twitched towards weapons. Making sure her own hands were well away from any of her weapons, she continued: “Of them, I am the least. My presence was an accident of timing, not any planning. I was in service to the  _ dunedain _ steward of my lord Aragorn as a minor message rider, and my riding bore me hence.”

“A message rider to a steward?” someone laughed. “Why, my son serves in the hall at Meduseld, as page to the keeper of the king’s halls! To find him in the company of the king would be far beyond his station!”

“Aye,” Holly agreed, and the entire group was chuckling with her. “I have come far beyond the paths I thought to tread, and I find myself out of place among kings and princes. The company I am now in is much more to my comfort.”

Pride shone on the faces of those closest to her as she gestured to their mounts. The leader of the group urged his mount a pace closer to her. “As a message rider, you must know your horses,” he said, and she carefully reached out to lay a hand on his mount’s neck at his nodded permission. The flesh was warm and strong beneath her fingertips, muscles shifting as the horse turned to glance at her. “What say you of ours?”

“We speak of your horses in the North, of their might and strength, but I find the reality to be beyond words,” she said truthfully. “As we ran, I spared a glance over your hills and plains and longed for a mount of my own, and not just for my weary feet. Though I saw few horses, despite the abundance of grass.”

Looks were exchanged, and an uneasy silence fell over the group once more. Eventually one of the men cursed under his breath and spat on the ground. “‘Tis the fault of the curst wizard,” he growled, causing more uneasy shifting. “And the lord of the Black Lands.”

“There are rumors in the North,” Holly began tentatively, “of tributes being paid.”

A rumble of angry murmurs answered her. “Never,” Eomer’s second hissed from between his teeth. “Orcs have plundered our fields, taking what we have refused them. By Eomer’s command we have removed our people and our mounts beyond the Entwash, leaving only swift scouts and guards to roam these lands.”

“Not that the king would have it,” someone else muttered. “Not with Wormtongue at his shoulder.”

“The Prince’s death might ‘ave been stopped,” a different voice said, so faintly it was nearly impossible to hear, “had that scum not been telling the king to pull back.”

“Prince Theodred fell?” Holly asked before she could stop herself. Long days recovering from injury had led to her familiarizing herself with the basics of the lineage of the other kingdoms of men, and she had updated her knowledge in Elrond’s library, in case the Company crossed paths with any of the ruling families of the southern kingdoms. She had recalled Eomer to be nephew to the king, but it was his cousin who was heir to the throne. “When was this?”

“Five days ago, at the Fords of Isen,” Eomer’s second said heavily. “Theodred King forbade our departure, but Eomer would not hear of letting further orcs roam our lands. We rode out in pursuit, and slaughtered them yesterday at dawn.”

“The orcs you pursued took captive two of our number,” Holly swallowed hard. “Were there none but orcs among the dead? Our companions are halflings of the far West, they would appear as children to you.”

“We gathered and burned the dead,” the man shook his head. “There were none but orc corpses. None escaped either.”

“Halflings are capable of going unseen among the big peoples of the world,” she murmured, half to herself. “Clad in the cloaks of the Galadhrim, they may have crept away under your notice.”

“To where?” Eomer’s second laughed flatly. “They did not go past us onto the plains, and had they fled into the forest, they would not have found safety there.”

“Thuri!” Aragorn called, and she turned to see him approaching with Eomer and the rest of the Company. Eomer was calling orders to his riders in their own language, and she raised her eyebrow as Eomer’s second laughed after the orders stopped.

“It seems your longing will be fulfilled,” he said, dismounting and handing his reins to the rider next to him. “Come, and tell me which of our mounts will suit your companions, though I little like giving one of our horses to a dwarf.”

“You will not need to,” she replied, eyeing the riderless horses he showed her. “He will ride pillion with one of us, if he rides at all.” There were only three spare horses, and she did her best to try and match them with the others. “Do you know what manner of mount was given to Boromir when he rode north?”

“I was not present,” the man shook his head. “Though I do not think it likely the horse was anything out of the ordinary. Our king is wroth with Gandalf for taking his prized steed, and he likely would have been further angered if another steed of high breeding had been given away, even to an ally.”

“Give my lord Aragorn this one,” Holly rested her hand on the neck of a great dark grey horse, one that reminded her of Aragorn’s eyes. It looked strong and surefooted, steady, with a keen glint in his eye. “And this one for Prince Legolas.” The horse was finer boned and more restless, shifting and wary, even as one of the Rohirrim held its reins. “He will not need the tack; elves have a different manner of such things and I suspect this would only inhibit him.”

She had ridden out enough with the patrols during her stay in Imladris to get a sense of how the elves rode, and Legolas had occasionally ridden with them as well. Neither she nor Boromir had the time to soothe the beast, but Legolas would likely have an easier time gentling it.

“The last for Lord Boromir then,” Eomer’s second said with a nod to the rider leading the horse. “And what of you, messenger?”

She laughed. “I am fated to ride pillion as someone’s saddlebags, I suppose. It is not my place to tell great lords and princes who must suffer my weight. Though, would these mounts be able to bear two at once?”

Eomer’s second glanced over her, and looked at her companions. “I would pair the elf and dwarf together, if I made the decision,” he said contemplatively. “The elf’s slightness would balance the dwarf’s stockiness, for all that I know. You are slight enough, and none of you are wearing plate armor, so you will not pose an undue burden if you ride double.”

“So there are some benefits to this after all,” Holly joked, and took the reins of Aragorn’s horse. “What is his name, and may I lead him to my lord?”

“His name is Hasufel, and you may.” The reins were released to her, and she led the horse over to where Aragorn and the others stood with Eomer. Behind her, she could hear the other riders shifting to allow the other two horses to be led forward as well.

“This is Hasufel,” she said, passing the reins to Aragorn with a slight dip of her head. Collecting the white horse, who had been stripped of his tack, but for the bridle, as she had asked, she waited patiently as he sidestepped as his reins were passed over before handing him off to Legolas, who immediately took the bridle off and began soothing the nervous horse.

“That is Arod,” Eomer’s second said, gesturing at the horse Legolas was taming, “and that is Dunstan.” 

Holly passed over the third horse, a grey only a few shades lighter than Aragorn’s mount, to Boromir, who accepted it with a polite nod.

“And what of you and Gimli?” Aragorn asked, glancing at the three mounts.

“Gimli will ride with me,” Legolas said, glancing at the dwarf. “Arod will bear us both.”

“Whichever of you will consent to bear me,” Holly replied with a shrug. “If you have no qualms about me riding pillion?”

“Do you promise to be conscious this time?” Aragorn said, and she was confused for a moment before slipping into Sindarin and hissing:

“ _ Would you have liked to face the Nazgul armed only with torches _ ?”

He narrowed his eyes at her, and she dropped her own apologetically. She had forgotten, for a moment, that he was royalty among other royals, and she owed him her respect and obedience, at least in public. Her words had been unwise, though she had at least had the sense to speak them in Sindarin.

“I will bear Thuri,” Boromir said quietly. “At least for a time. We might share the burden between us, if you wish?”

“Let it be so,” Aragorn said, and he mounted easily. Holly helped one of the Rohirrim boost Gimli up behind Legolas, where he looked as uncomfortable as the hobbits had during their trip down the Anduin. Boromir mounted while she was busy, and leaned down to help lift her into the saddle.

Finding a comfortable seat behind the saddle, she wrapped her arm around his waist and wove in a sticking charm, just to be certain. “If we run into trouble that we’re fighting,” she murmured as Aragorn and Eomer bid each other farewell, “Are you fighting or steering?”

“Steering,” he said immediately.

“Then I’ll fight,” she said, wondering why. His seat would be much more secure in the high saddle the Rohirrim seemed to prefer than her own seat behind it, giving him better stability to wield his sword. “Unless I decide to fight from the ground, and then you’re on your own.”

* * *

The horses of the Rohirrim were as swift as the tales said, though Holly wished she were riding her own mount instead of perched behind Boromir. They had stopped once, to look at the crossing of the orc trails, but it was muddled and confused by the tracks of Eomer’s company, and Aragorn could glean no new information from it. So they carried on, until the afternoon waned and they found themselves on the eaves of a great forest.

Orc corpses, felled by arrows of human craft, lay beside their path, gruesome markers already beginning to bloat and rot. Ahead of them, growing stronger as they drew closer to the forest edge, a plume of choking black smoke still rose, along with the scent of roasted flesh. It was enough to make Holly glad for the slight filtration that her cowl offered her, though she wished it had the technology of the muggle gas masks she had seen before her unexpected departure from her home.

A great pile of discarded gear sat beside the smoking pile of ashes, and Holly slipped off Dunstan to investigate it, looking for any sign of the hobbits. The others spread out across the battlefield, their horses tied to a tree at the edge of the glade.

It was horrid work, rummaging through the heap of discarded armor, hoping for signs of their missing companions. The metal was crudely fashioned, in comparison to the armor of the elves. Even the armor that some of the Rangers wore was better fashioned than this, though materials were scarce and skilled craftsmen few and far between. Much of what they had available was heirlooms, kept in careful repair, but this was new, the pieces forged from what seemed like brute strength alone, all skill and artistry missing. Rough edges, utilitarian purpose, and no symbol but for the white badge that had been present on the orcs surrounding the clearing where Boromir had nearly met his death.

Whoever had crafted these had crafted them without a care for the wearer, Holly realized as she nudged another crumpled helm out of her way with her foot, unwilling to discover what fluids were caked on the inside. The armor had been mass produced, heedless of wearer size or shape or preference. It showed in the wear patterns, it showed in how armor that ought to have taken a blow had split or failed because of some modification the wearer had made. Helms with pieces missing, breastplates that had been misaligned...all of them telling her that the smith responsible had simply been meeting quotas, not crafting pieces for individuals.

As night began to fall, she gave up, crossing the glade to stand by Aragorn as he surveyed a set of scuffed tracks. “There is no sign of them, my lord,” she murmured, careful to keep her own tracks away from the scuffed ground. “All of the armor is of orc-styling. I did notice that it is less effective, and not well-suited to many of the orcs. There may be weak spots, or less coverage than we expect, at least with these orcs that bear the white badge.” 

Aragorn said nothing, simply staring at the tracks until they all gathered to make camp on the edge of the forest. As Gimli set about building a fire from the felled trees and branches left by the Rohirrim, Holly slipped away to stand among the horses, checking their feet and driving the picket lines slightly further into the frost-hard earth. Once she had settled them, checking the piles of tack for any frayed or damaged leather, she dug her hand into her pocket and let her fingers clutch around the stone.

She had turned it three times on the lawn at Parth Galen and thought of Gandalf, but seen Faredir instead.

As she clutched the stone in the eaves of Fangorn Forest, Holly was afraid of who would come if she called now.

“Thuri,” Aragorn called from the far side of the horses, at the edge of the firelight. “Do not stray.”

“Aye,” she replied, and released the stone in her hand. For seventy years she had ignored its presence, not touched it despite the losses she bore on her shoulders. If she had, Holly feared, she would have ceased to live, simply ghosting through life like one of the specters she was chasing.

It would not do to fall to that trap now.

“I will take first watch,” she said as she stepped back into the small camp they had made. “And, if you will permit it, my lord, I would lay a spell around the camp, to safeguard us during the night.”

“You feel there is some danger?” Aragorn asked, hand on Anduril’s hilt, his eyes sharp.

“There is something that bids me to drive the picket lines in further,” she admitted. “Something that bids me to be wary, though it is not the forest. I feel exposed in a way that I have not felt since we set out, and I wish to shield us in the only way I know.”

“Why have you not offered this before?” Legolas asked curiously from where he was counting his arrows.

Holly shrugged, wishing she had pockets to shove her hands into. “There is no great cost, but that whoever crosses the boundary line will not return to the relative safety of the camp until the ward is broken. The truth is that it would not conceal the burden we safeguarded, so there was no benefit to restricting the Company to camp. It is also fragile. To scuff the lines would break the protection. In a fight, it is too difficult to maintain.”

“But you offer it now, so you do not think what troubles you will lead to a fight,” Gimli threw another branch onto the fire.

“I do not  _ know _ what troubles me,” Holly snapped. “I am not cursed with visions of what is to come, only burdened with the sense that there is something that means to search us out during the night that I would prefer not to be found by!”

“What is it you must do?” Aragorn asked, shooting a quelling glance at Gimli, who puffed up defensively at her tone.

Taking a deep breath, Holly reached into her belt pouch for the smaller pouch that she used to keep her warding supplies in. “I walk the camp perimeter,” she said, testing the words in her head. The process was both far simpler and much more complicated than the warding she had learned from Bill Weasley, and relied a great deal on what she was trying to ward, and against what. “Three times I think. Possibly seven. On each pass I lay down some of my mixture of salt and herbs, and on the last pass I mark runes at the cardinal points.”

“And should we need to flee?”

“It will break if the line is crossed from the inside, and there will be a backlash on the caster for not taking it up properly,” she admitted grudgingly. “When we are ready to move on, I will take it up properly, but while it is active, no living thing that means us harm may cross it.”

“This sounds as if it might have been exceedingly useful before,” Gimli said testily. “Such as in the lands before Khazad-Dum.”

“No  _ living thing _ master dwarf,” she gritted out. “Arrows, spears, and swords may all cross with ease. And should we have managed not to break the circle in our defense, our foes may very well have besieged us and waited for hunger and desperation to draw us forth, if they did not simply slay us by arrow as we wearied and faltered.”

“There is the same risk here, is there not?” Legolas asked, gesturing at their camp.

Rubbing her forehead with her fingers, Holly swallowed back her irritation. “Here, we are bordered on one side by Fangorn Forest. While the rumors of this forest are forbidding, I do not think the orcs will find safe passage under its roof. Retreat through the forest is possible, even if I am inconvenienced.”

“Enough,” Aragorn said, his tone quelling. “Thuri, if you feel it necessary, lay your circle. The rest of you, do not cross it in the night, even if it means letting the fire fail.”

* * *

As Holly finished pacing her circle, she found the others had wrapped themselves in their bedrolls and were on their way to sleep. Yet Boromir sat up as she approached the fire, and she waited for him to speak as she unrolled her own bedroll and took a seat.

“The horses are outside the circle,” he opened with.

“Larger circles mean weaker protections,” she murmured, drawing one knee up to her chest and looking out into the darkness beyond the edge of the forest. “And I would not have them trapped, if it should come to that. While we might retreat to the forest, they will not find it so easy.”

They sat in silence for several minutes until Boromir spoke again. “Why did you restore my life?”

“I did not restore it,” Holly corrected. “Life is not mine to give. What I did was hold your soul in place until your body could be made whole again.”

“You could have let me die,” the man said, meeting her eyes as she turned to look at him. “It would have only been just punishment.”

“I have let too many good men die,” she whispered, thoughts of Faredir and the other Rangers she had buried over the years of her life. Of Colin and Remus and Tonks and Sirius. Of Cedric. “I would not bury another if I could save him.”

“You knew of my crimes and yet you call me a good man?”

“What man has not faltered in the face of such evil?” she shrugged. “That you repented shows that you have the strength to overcome it.”

Boromir scowled at her. “I was the only one of the Company to falter.”

“Gandalf did not test himself against it,” she pointed out with a roll of her eyes. “He and Aragorn fear its power. Legolas and Gimli likely struggle, but the races of dwarves and elves are said to be stronger, more resistant to such things than the race of men. And we know little of hobbits, but for the example of Bilbo and Frodo.”

“And what of you?” he asked. “Have you faltered?”

She studied him consideringly for a moment. “I awoke one day in the ravines of the Ram Duath, far from everyone and everything that I knew. The hill tribe not sworn to Angmar found me and took me in, and I eventually became one of them, and dwelt among them before I swore myself to the Rangers and Aragorn.”

Idly rotating her ankle, an idle habit she had picked up somewhere in her life, Holly continued. “My life can be split into three broad sections: in service to the Rangers, among the hill tribe, and among my own people.”

“And where are your people?”

“Beyond time and space,” she whispered. “My people had a method of travel that allowed us to cross great distances in no time, but it required more magic than I can access here. I was fleeing a fight when something went wrong with the magic and I ended up in the Ram Duath. There is less magic here, and even if there wasn’t, there is no way to replicate what went wrong to send me here in the first place.”

Holly could see that he was confused, likely wondering what any of this had to do with the Ring, but she thought it was important for him to hear the background. “When I was a little over a year old, my family was attacked by a dark wizard, and my parents were killed. What nobody knew at the time, or if someone did, they told nobody of their suspicion, was that this wizard had tethered himself to life by biding pieces of his soul to objects. While the objects existed, this wizard could not die.”

“Like the Dark One,” Boromir murmured, eyes flashing with understanding. “You have seen this before.”

“In a fashion,” she agreed. “For the wizard to die, all of these tethers had to be destroyed beyond repair, which was near impossible, much like the hobbit’s task. What I used, what was used, on the items is beyond my reach, or I would have offered it in Imladris.”

“You, my lady?”

“Aye,” Holly found a wry grin tugging at her lips. “I destroyed the first of the anchors when I was twelve, and nearly died for my troubles. The second was destroyed by another when I was nearly sixteen. My two best friends and I spent half of my seventeenth year with the third hanging around our necks, whispering all manner of evil to us before we managed to destroy it.”

Pausing, she tilted her head, remembering the frigid water of the pond, and the burning heat of the locket as memories of that fateful All Hallows Eve merged with reality as Nagini lunged for her. Carefully, she pushed aside her leather jerkin, undid the laces of her tunic, and bared her upper breast for Boromir to see the red scar from where the locket had burnt her. “Wounds left by objects like that cannot be healed by any means without leaving a sign of their passing.”

“Three anchors?” Boromir asked as she replaced her clothing. “Let me be thankful then that we have only the one.”

“There were seven,” Holly swallowed hard. “The fourth was liberated after much difficulty and destroyed as soon as possible, while the fifth was accidentally destroyed by someone playing with spells they did not understand in an attempt to murder me and my companions. Another of my friends destroyed the seventh.”

“And the sixth?”

“What you need to understand,” she began slowly, remembering the shock and numbness that had filled her as she stumbled out of the Pensive in the Headmaster’s office, “is that what was done to create the sixth tether was an accident, one that was then done deliberately to fashion the seventh. But it is a perversion, a crime against nature beyond what the creation of the tethers already is. To split one’s soul is beyond fathoming, but to place a fragment in another’s soul is abhorrent. The seventh tether was a great snake, the wizard’s companion, and the only way to destroy a tether in a living creature is to kill the creature.”

Boromir closed his eyes momentarily. “You are the seventh tether.”

“Were,” Holly corrected. “There’s power in willing sacrifice. It had also been arranged, without my knowledge until the very end, that I would come into possession of three very powerful magical objects, which my forefathers took from the hands of Death himself. By willingly sacrificing myself, the tether within me was destroyed, but by possessing the objects, I became immune to death. Much like the elves, I am fated to linger on these shores, but unlike the elves, I cannot meet my death in battle and seek out Valinor. That I could manipulate souls was a new discovery for me, and I am glad that it came in time to save you.”

They were silent for a long moment, and then Boromir spoke again. “I do not wish to presume,” and he hesitated for a moment before continuing, “but, if you are able to manipulate souls, and if that which tempted me to ruin was a fragment of a soul bound to an object, could you not have removed the soul fragment and banished it?”

She opened her mouth to respond, closed it, and then scowled. “I don’t know,” Holly admitted, mind whirling with possibilities. “I did not know saving you was within my reach until the night before it was needed, when Irmo came to me in a dream. If we had more time, I would certainly have tried it, if the thought had occurred to me.”

_ Damn and blast and blistering hells _ ! She cursed, gazing out into the darkness. If all of their problems could have been solved while they were within the safety of Imladris, how would that have changed things? The threat of Mordor would lessen, if not become nonexistent, leaving only Saruman to contend with, and the remnants of Angmar and Mordor’s forces, assuming that Angmar fell alongside Mordor.

Something moved, catching her eye, and she set aside thoughts of  _ could have _ and  _ would have _ in favor of picking up her bow, the butt of her staff planted in the ground next to her where she could reach for it, but it wouldn’t trip her up if she had to move quickly.

Boromir shifted as she drew back her bowstring and shifted so that she was kneeling, aiming at the figure hovering at the edge of her ward line. Wrapped in a cloak, face obscured by a large floppy hat, it was impossible to determine the man’s identity. 

“Show yourself!” she demanded, arrow ready to fly at the first sign of malice from their visitor. “What business have you in these lands?”

Around her, the others came to wakefulness, but she dared not take her eyes off the man. But as suddenly as he appeared at the edge of her ward line, he vanished, and with him the sounds of their mounts.

Huffing out a frustrated sigh, Holly lowered her bow, and picked up a torch from the fire, gazing out into the darkness. As she had feared, their mounts had gone, whether from fear or sorcery she did not know.

“Do not cross the ward line,” she warned Legolas, who had come to join her. “The horses have gone, though they would have not easily suffered the forest with us on the morn.”

“I think it was Saruman,” Gimli was grumbling as she placed her branch back into the fire. “Remember the words of Eomer?”

Aragorn’s sigh suggested this was not the first time Gimli had expressed such a sentiment. “Take the next watch Gimli, if you have no immediate need for further rest.”

As the dwarf spluttered, Holly lay herself down on her bedroll, back to the fire, hand grasping her bow. “Mind the ward line,” she said, and drew her cloak about her, hearing the others do the same."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recognizable passages are directly from the source material; I take absolutely no credit for Tolkien's work.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The great storm is coming, but the tide has turned."

**Chapter Twelve:**

As the dawn rose, Holly stretched herself, feeling her muscles complain from the previous day’s ride, as well as the cold that seeped into her bones from the ground during the night. It was barely March, if her reckoning was right, and spring would come to these lands in time, but winter’s dregs yet remained.

Boromir was rummaging through their packs, and handed her a corner of  _ lembas _ , which she ate without complaint, though she thought wistfully of Sunday dinners at the Burrow, or of feast nights in the enclaves of the  _ dunedain _ . But their stores currently consisted of lembas and water, so she made do.

Once she had finished, she rose and paced the circle, listening to what the magic whispered to her. No living thing had attempted to breach its protection, though their lone visitor had inspected it. As she walked, counter clockwise to reverse what she had done the night before, releasing the magic, Holly hummed one of the songs she had learned around the fires of her adopted people, the beat steadying her steps as she moved. On her third pass from her starting point, she swept her foot out in time with her tune, breaking the line of salt and herbs she had laid the night before and scuffing the rune she had marked there. From cardinal point to cardinal point, she went, until the runes were scuffed out and the circle of herbs and salt scattered in the grass.

“Are we free to move?” Aragorn asked, appearing at her shoulder.

With a nod, she stepped over the line and towards where she had picketed the horses. “What are your orders?”

“We track the hobbits,” he replied, grasping her wrist. “Leave the horses, we have no means to track them. Begin here, around where we have made camp, and move towards the eaves of the forest.”

Obediently, Holly turned aside and bent near the ground, looking for traces of the hobbits, though she inwardly despaired of finding any. Even if traces could be found, which she was skeptical of given the lightness of foot she had observed from their hobbit companions, there was little chance they had managed to escape the slaughter. The Rohirrim had been thorough, and she did not doubt that the orcs would have slain their captives rather than risk an escape.

Yet she found herself proven wrong as Aragorn called the company to him, a familiar leaf in his hand. As she arrived, Gimli was brandishing an orc knife, and Boromir stooping over a darkened patch of ground not far from them.

They followed the river to the forest, where they found further proof of at least one hobbit’s passage, though the prints were hard to see on the dry, hard ground, a far cry to those left behind in the soft river mud.

As they passed under the canopy, Holly found herself sticking close to Boromir’s side. He looked nearly as ill at ease as he had been in Lothlorien, and she couldn’t blame him. While Lothlorien had been cradled in Galadriel’s magic, there was something far older and wilder that ruled this forest. A tension had fallen upon her shoulders like a heavy blanket, and she gripped her staff warily. Around them, the trees seemed to loom like disapproving statues, judging them and finding them wanting.

_ At least it is not dark _ , she reminded herself as Aragorn returned once more to the stream, searching for signs of the hobbits’ passage.  _ And it is far less openly menacing than the Forbidden Forest _ .

Indeed, Fangorn was nearly hospitable, compared to the depths of the Forbidden Forest. Watchful trees, even if Legolas was correct and they were filled with wrath, were less terrifying than the prospect of Acromantulas attempting to eat her, or angry centaurs, or Grawp…

They halted, and examined the prints Aragorn had found, and Holly breathed a sigh of relief at the proof that, two days ago, Merry and Pippin had stopped here, if only for a moment. She had grown fond of them, at least a little, though she had spent little time with any of the hobbits. Some of their mischief reminded her of Fred and George, a reminder that still hurt even after all this time. But to know that they lived lightened her heart, and she followed the company with a slight spring to her step as they climbed up to the high shelf, Aragorn fussing over the signs he found.

She was content to defer tracking to him; while she had grown capable out of necessity, it was clear that he was far better than even Legolas, who ought to have had the advantage due to eyesight alone.

Standing atop the rise, Holly felt a trickle of a premonition slither down her spine. Something was coming, or something was about to happen, though it did not feel altogether threatening. Whatever was coming, or impending, was powerful, powerful enough that she realized the hair on the back of her neck was standing on end. Nervously, she placed her bow in the straps she had rigged to hold it, choosing instead to grip her staff in both hands. If whatever approached was something that an arrow could solve, Legolas would likely be far more capable of putting an arrow where one ought to go than she was, at least in terms of speed.

Gimli called for them to take up arms, but Holly simply gripped her staff tighter, feeling the runes carved into it bite into her hands through the thin gloves she wore. Legolas bent his bow, and Boromir’s hands were on his sword hilt as he practically vibrated like a stretched bowstring next to her, but Aragorn stood silent and watchful.

The old man, or at least the figure garbed as an old man, approached, but what words he traded with the others were drowned out by a loud rushing in her ears as Holly hurried to pull her magic back inside herself. Over the years, she had grown used to unconsciously using it to glean information about what surrounded her, to give her an edge over anything that might pursue her, but now whoever approached was so powerful it overwhelmed her.

Staggering, she fell to her knees as the feeling swept over her, her staff clattering against the stone as she clutched at her head, feeling as if she might be split in two by the pounding in her skull. Vaguely she was aware of noise and motion around her, of things falling and a blaze of light, but Holly dragged her wits together with an effort, pulling her magic close within herself, cutting herself off from whoever had come before them.

As the wave of power receded, her magic tucked back into her own skin in a way she had forgotten she knew how to do after so many years of relying on it as an extra sense, Holly found herself taking deep, gasping breaths, hands on her shoulders anchoring her as much as the cold stone beneath her aching knees. Warily, she opened her eyes, and found her companions arrayed in front of her, Gimli driven to his knees, but it was Boromir who was kneeling in front of her, hands on her shoulders, grip tight against the leather of her jerkin.

“Are you well?” he asked, voice low and desperate. “Thuri, are you well?”

“I will be,” she replied, and then paused, surprised at the taste of blood on her lips. Clumsily, she pulled a glove off, and then brushed her fingers against her lip, finding them bloody as she drew them away. It wasn’t the first time Holly had found her nose bleeding when she attempted too much with her magic, and it wasn’t likely to be the last either. Now that she wasn’t at risk of being overwhelmed by whoever had approached, she would be fine.

“Do you need anything?” he whispered, glancing at the others over his shoulder.

Her dampeners would slow her intake of magic, but whatever force had driven her to her knees was not an ambient source that she could draw from. No, this was the equivalent of a supernova contained in a human being, and she had unwisely attempted to trace its limits, at least unconsciously. Holly felt her headache receding, and the blood on her face as she wiped it away with the back of her hand was tacky and drying, not fresh. The worst of it was over, so long as she kept her magic to herself.

“Do not fret,” she said, wiping her bloodied hand on a nearby leaf. “I was temporarily overwhelmed. What have I missed?”

“Mithrandir has returned,” Boromir removed his hands from her shoulders, and rose, offering her his hand. She slipped her glove back on and grasped it, allowing him to help pull her to her feet. In the back of her mind, she twisted her tiny metamorphmagus talent, restoring the brown hair and eyes that she had adopted for Thuri, having lost control over the change when she was overwhelmed. As she rose, she saw that Boromir had spoken the truth, and that Gandalf stood before them, robed in a white as dazzling as the snow on a cloudless day.

Almost as if he realized how much he was making her eyes hurt, Gandalf drew the ragged grey cloak about him once more and his brilliance diminished. 

“Peace, Thuri,” he said gently, meeting her eyes. “I did not mean to hurt you.”

“Well met, Mithrandir,” she replied, automatically bowing slightly. “It was an accident, nothing more.”

“Well met indeed!” he laughed, and then turned to Gimli. “Get up, my good Gimli! No blame to you, and no harm done to me. Indeed my friends, none of you have any weapon that could hurt me. Be merry! We meet again. At the turn of the tide. The great storm is coming, but the tide has turned.”

The wizard moved to sit, and Holly drew closer to the rest of her companions, finding that Aragorn and Legolas shifted to make space for both herself and Boromir. She listened as Aragorn told their tale to Gandalf, and the wizard shared cryptic bits about his own tale, though Holly suspected that it was not out of any mischief, but that his experiences were beyond comprehension, even for those that had lived them.

It was rare that she was forced to remember that the wizards of this world were likened to the lesser angels the Christians had spoken of in their texts, but as she sat and listened to Gandalf, she could not shake the comparison. Holly found herself humbled by the understanding, knowing that she was both like and unlike them, though she would never reach the sheer, encompassing power that had driven her to her knees simply by existing in its presence.

While she did not understand what Gandalf was saying about the tree-guardians, she was heartened to know that the hobbits were in presumably safe hands. As Aragorn asked if they were to follow in the hobbits footsteps and meet this Treebeard Gandalf spoke of, Holly found herself shaking her head along with the wizard. She scowled as she realized it.

_ I have no talent for divination! _ she thought furiously, clenching her fists in her lap.  _ Why do I know the direction of the path before me with greater certainty now than I ever have before? _

Looking up, she realized Gandalf was looking at her curiously. “You have the Lady’s blessing upon you,” he said, and she froze.  _ The Lady’s Blessing _ . Holly hadn’t thought much of Galadriel’s parting words to her since their departure, but now it flooded back to her, and her hand flew up to touch her scar, or where it ought to be.

“This is because of  _ her _ ?” she snapped, unsure of whether to be glad or furious that the Lady of the Galadhrim had somehow jumpstarted previously dormant divinatory instincts. It only seemed to manifest in the form of keen feelings of dread and more frequent deja vu, but Holly was willing to bet that there was the possibility it could become more. Dragging her hand down her face, she resisted the urge to beat her head against the rock around her in a vain attempt to beat the blessing out of her.

If this  _ gift _ started manifesting in waking visions, ones that occurred on the battlefield, Holly was going to set fire to the Golden Wood and refuse to put it out until Galadriel took it back.

“What is it?” Aragorn asked, looking between them as he rested a hand on Holly’s shoulder, Boromir doing the same on her left. “Are you well?”

“Apparently the Lady Galadriel sharpened my powers of foretelling,” Holly said shortly, unsure of how to word it in a way that the others would understand. “Not that I see much, or clearly, and not that any of it is useful. I did not forsee what befell the Company at Rauros, but I knew that ill fortune awaited us there.” Glancing at Boromir, she admitted: “The Master of Dreams came to me in the early hours and spoke words that led me to attempt what I did that day, and I cannot be ungrateful that he did.”

“Do you See?” 

At his question, Holly recalled that Aragorn had grown up in Imladris, under the tutelage of Lord Elrond, who was known for his foresight. Of their Company, he may be the only one who might stand a chance of understanding.

“Not yet,” she said, watching Gandalf for any sign that he knew more about the Lady’s gift than she did. “Merely I know where my path may lead when I look for it, though only at the point in time closest to me. I do not know where I am to go from here, but I know that I will not see the hobbits soon. I knew that we were on the brink of a decision at Parth Galen, but I did not know that we would not pursue Frodo and Sam until they had already left.”

Gandalf drew their attention back to him with a cough, and Holly was glad to sit and listen to his tale of the wizard’s fight against the Balrog. She felt Aragorn’s hand on her shoulder tighten as the wizard turned to him and recounted the Lady Galadriel’s words to him.

_ Where now are the Dunedain, Elessar, Elessar? _

_ Why do thy kinsfolk wander afar? _

_ Near is the hour when the Lost should come forth, _

_ And the Grey Company ride from the North. _

_ But dark is the path appointed for thee: _

_ The Dead watch the road that leads to the Sea _ .

Holly shivered as the weight of Fate fell around them at Gandalf’s words. As the wizard turned to Legolas and Gimli, she turned over his words to Aragorn in her mind.

Teddy had gone through an entire poetry phase during his teenage years, trying to impress several of his classmates, and Holly had suffered through any number of sonnets, love poems, and even two limericks which she hoped Andromeda never got her hands on. As such, she considered herself a reasonable hand at deciphering rhyming messages.

The first two lines clearly named the  _ dunedain _ , possibly the Rangers as a whole. Galadriel’s words left little ambiguity there. In the second couplet, it sounded as if the Lady had forseen a riding of a company of the  _ dunedain _ from the ruins of their northern kingdom, but to where they rode, there was no hint.

“The Dead watch the road that leads to the Sea,” she murmured as Legolas bickered with Gimli over the Lady’s words for him, which seemed equally grim, though she had only vaguely listened to them. “Why the sea? And which Dead?”

They were walking through Fangorn, Aragorn at the forefront with Gandalf, conversing in low tones, Legolas and Gimli next, still bickering over the words brought for them by Gandalf, when Boromir, who had remained at the rear with Holly, answered the question she had thought passed unnoticed.

“In Gondor, there remains a tale,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on Aragorn. “From when the kingdom was yet new and the memories of Numenor filled all with grief. It is said that Isildur went to the hill of Erech and set a great stone. Upon that stone, he bade the King of the Mountains swear allegiance to him, and the King did. But as Sauron’s power grew, and all the Free Peoples mustered against him, the Men of the Mountains forsook that oath, and in return, Isildur cursed them to go without rest until they fulfilled their oath.”

“And what of these men and their king?” Holly asked, seeing the sunlight growing stronger before them as the trees thinned. “What do they have to do with the words of the Lady Galadriel?”

“They withdrew into their mountains, and it is said that they haunt the paths within them to this day,” Boromir said with a shudder. “A prince of the Rohirrim once dared traverse those paths; no word ever came of him. That the Lady would mention such a road...it brings a chill to my heart. Dark days are upon us, to consider trespassing on oathbreakers.”

As they stepped out of the shadows of Fangorn’s encompassing boughs, Gandalf gave a long, clear whistle that cut through all other sounds in a way that shouldn’t be humanly possible.

Aragorn lay flat against the ground, once more listening to that which could not be heard by the others, but soon there was no need, since the sound of hoofbeats was easily discerned by all.

“There are four,” Legolas said after a long moment, eyes fixed on something that Holly could not yet see. “Our mounts I recognize, but not the fourth.”

“That is Shadowfax. He is the chief of the  _ Mearas _ , lords of horses, and not even Theoden, King of Rohan, has ever looked on a better. Does he not shine like silver, and run as smoothly as a swift stream? He has come for me: the horse of the White Rider. We are going to battle together.”

Holly couldn’t help but admire the great white steed as he came up the slope to greet Gandalf. Never before had she seen such a horse, even among the unicorns that dwelt deep in the Forbidden Forest, and she knew that she would never see another like him. But her attention was soon drawn to the other horses as they arrived moments later. Stepping away from Boromir, she checked over all three of their mounts to make sure they had not been injured when they fled the night before.

All three seemed to be in good health, and she was glad to see their piles of tack untouched a short distance away. As Gandalf spoke with the others, she quickly tacked up Hasufel and Dunstan, and removed the halter that they had used to picket Arod during the night. At Gandalf’s command, the horses moved to their riders, and Holly helped boost Gimli up in front of Gandalf, envying the dwarf the ride on such a horse.

“Hasufel will bear us both,” Aragorn said, drawing up beside her as she glanced between the other riders. Carefully, Holly vaulted up behind him, settling herself where she wouldn’t impede him nor cause overmuch stress on the horse. It was many miles to Edoras and the hall of Meduseld, and if they lost one of the horses, the journey would be all the longer.

Out from under the stifling canopy of Fangorn, the warm strength of Hasufel beneath her and a sea of green, gently rolling hills, Holly could almost believe she was once more in the North, riding between Ranger outposts. Several times, she caught herself nearly resting her head against Aragorn’s shoulder, as if he was one of the Rangers she had grown close with over the years. They had ridden like this from time to time, as horses were lost or killed, or when the outpost had too few mounts to offer one to each visitor on their next leg. 

And of course, she’d been scraped off the grass at least once every five years and dragged back to Esteldin with wounds that would have killed any other man, but she lingered on.

Halbarad had taken her to task for it once, when she was brought back from Tinnudir with her intestines barely held within her skin and three arrows in places that should have killed her between the location and the bleeding.

_ “You keep doing this and they’re going to notice!” he snapped, pacing in front of the cot they’d set up in the tiny room in the ruins of Esteldin that he called his own. As one of Gilraen’s deputies and her eventual successor as the Northern Steward, as whoever attended to the general affairs of the Rangers when their chieftain was mucking about in the southern kingdoms was titled in jest, he was granted the luxury of a private room deep in the ruined city where it was safe, defensible, and most importantly: weatherproof. The infirmary was nearby, but given that experience had proven Holly would heal completely with time, their overworked healers found it best to discharge her into his keeping so he could keep her entertained and still with reports, books, or whatever else he was stuck attending to. “And then they’ll haul you back to Angmar and you’ll find yourself in the Witch King’s dungeons being tortured! There’s no possibility of death for you, so it becomes a question of how much you’re willing to withstand without breaking!” _

_ “Ten of Calenglad’s Wardens made it out of the city alive,” she snapped back, closing the book she had been reading harder than she had meant to. “Most of them would have died if I hadn’t stalled for as much time as I could give them. Would you rather have sung their laments instead of having me back here to shift your paperwork onto?” _

_ “Every time I get word you’re in the healer’s wing, it’s worse,” he said, sitting down heavily in his chair. “One of these days I swear you’re going to come back in pieces and where will you be then? Do you regenerate limbs? What happens if they behead you?” _

_ “Not something I’ve had to worry about before,” she admitted, trying to sit up further but wincing as it pulled on the still healing skin on her abdomen. “But I try very hard not to let anyone cut anything valuable off.” _

_ He huffed out a reluctant laugh, and reached over to adjust her pillows and help her sit up. “Calenglad sent word that you ought to stay here for a year or two. Apparently they’ve heard the Angmarim asking questions about the large proportion of self-sacrificing berserkers among the Ranger garrison at Tinnudir. You’ve left quite an impression.” _

_ “Kreacher was the one setting all the traps,” she shrugged off the compliment and reached for her book once more. “I just bought everyone the time they needed.” _

_ “There’s probably a hundred men who owe you their lives,” Halbarad said quietly as she opened the book once more. “You’ll wave it off, but that’s a hundred lives we might have lost without you.” _

_ “I’ve been told I have a saving people thing.” _

She came back to herself as the grass around them grew so tall that it brushed against her thighs and dragged at the trailing ends of her cloak. Grimacing, Holly gathered the fabric to her and sat on it, preventing it from being caught on anything and possibly yanking her off. In a proper saddle it was less of a problem, but as she bounced about like baggage behind Aragorn, she was more likely to be unseated.

“We ought to switch soon,” Holly said, leaning into Aragorn slightly to speak directly in his ear. “So as not to tire Hasufel.”

As he nodded, she glanced at the others, measuring their mounts and weights carefully before waving over Legolas, who was riding behind them. 

“Mind if I join you?” she asked as he came up alongside them, and at his nod, Holly swung her leg over Hasufel’s quarters and slithered to the ground between them, immediately stepping into pace with the two horses and grabbing Legolas’s outstretched arm, pushing off from the ground as he pulled her up so she was seated behind him.

For a moment, Arod’s spine dug uncomfortably into her seat, but she shifted, wrapping her arm around Legolas’ waist as she settled into the horse’s stride. “Just so you know,” Holly murmured as they pulled away from Aragorn. “If we get ambushed, you’re going to have to steer because I’m more accustomed to saddle and bridle when I’m fighting.”

The elf laughed. “Fear not Thuri,” he replied as the grass fell away again to a more manageable height. “Should we find ourselves ambushed, your bow will have to sing for the both of us.”

* * *

They rode past sunset, until Gandalf finally called a halt. Legolas and Gimli settled easily, but Holly did not find restful sleep, chasing figments of dreams that unsettled her. When she finally gave up on sleep and rose, Boromir was lying next to her, brow furrowed in some unknown worry that plagued his dreams.

“He was not supposed to survive the ambush at Parth Galen,” she said as she drew closer to Gandalf, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb the others. Aragorn might yet be awake, but he was lying still, looking up at the stars. Holly did not want to disturb his rest. “Boromir, that is. We found him, and he was dying and I saved him.”

“Do not regret it,” the wizard said, staring into the darkness, looking out over the hills towards the east. “You should not regret saving a life where there might only have been death otherwise. There is too much death in the world.”

“I don’t regret it,” she hissed, stilling as someone behind her shifted and one of the horses stomped his feet. “I don’t,” Holly repeated, “but I can’t help but wonder what I have changed by doing so. Lord Irmo said that my very arrival here had disturbed the threads of Lady Vaire. What else have my actions disturbed? Boromir has said something that makes me question whether or not I could have destroyed  _ it _ in Imladris, but my intuition tells me that this is the path I ought to walk.”

“What is to be is wholly dependent on choices,” Gandalf hummed, reaching out to stroke Shadowfax’s nose as the horse nudged him from behind. “Both yours, and the choices of others. If you feel as if we were meant to come this way, then that is simply all there is to it. In doing so, you have been put in a place where you might aid Rohan in throwing off Saruman, if Theoden King will listen to reason.”

He left her there and went to the others, and she saddled the horses as they rose, chewing on a corner of  _ lembas _ that she pulled out of her pack. Holly had turned over Arod to Legolas and Hasufel to Aragorn when Boromir approached her, leading Dunstan. “Will you ride with me once more?” he asked, a shadow of a smile on his face. “I promise to let you steer if orcs stampede out of the hills.”

“None of your cheek,” she said, huffing out a slight laugh. “You heard Gandalf when we stopped. This close to Edoras, we are unlikely to be waylaid by orcs on the road.”

They rode out, under the cold light of the moon, and Holly held her tongue as she watched the red glow emanating from the Gap of Rohan. Isengard lay that way, and with it, Saruman.

Having spent half her life in the northlands, which were perpetually beset by forces out of Carn Dum, Holly was no innocent who believed that war was only a thing of history. But she could not understand, and yet she could understand, the fall of such a person as the White Wizard. She had seen it happen with Voldemort, had seen it happen on smaller scales as an Auror and as the Trev Duvardain’s alliance with Carn Dum became cemented, but at heart she could not fathom what could drive someone to fall and abandon their people and the world as a whole.

Slowly, oh so slowly, the night failed and dawn came again. Holly was just contemplating switching mounts once more when Gandalf and Shadowfax halted, looking out towards the mountains of the south.

“Speak Legolas,” said Gandalf. “Tell us what you see there before us!”

Idly, Holly listened as the elf described a city upon a hill, crowned by a golden hall. Then, before they moved off again, she switched mounts once more, finding herself behind Aragorn once more.

The grass here, further south than she had ever been since her arrival, was lush and green. Spring was setting in, brightening the buds of the trees that lined the banks of the stream they forded.

This was a land barely touched by the hardships of war, one she wistfully thought the northern kingdom might have been at one time.

_ And might still be _ , she thought, as Hasufel sidestepped to avoid a deep rut in the ford from a wagon wheel and Aragorn’s shoulder knocked into her collarbone,  _ should my lord become king _ .

It was hard sometimes, to remember that this man who dragged four hobbits and herself backwards through every bush in the Trollshaws, who was smudged with dust and grime, whose nails were black with dirt and probably orc blood, was her liege lord, her chieftain, her king. She had known him as a concept, as her lady’s son, as Halbarad’s kinsman, but she had met the man as Strider, just another Ranger in the  _ Pony _ and travelled nearly all the way to the Bruinen before she knew him to be Aragorn, son of Arathorn.

When she first met Golodir, and learned of the  _ dunedain _ , she hadn’t truly got a measure of the depth of their devotion to their chieftain. Upon her arrival in Esteldin, Holly had been wary of it, watching the community from a distance as she healed, trying to make sense of it all, but one night, midwinter, they had gathered around the bonfire, and one of the men had raised up his voice in a song so mournful that it brought tears to her eyes. Yet it had been followed by a song of such hope that she would have sworn herself to their cause that night, if it had been allowed, and if her own good sense had not prevailed.

On the surface, it hadn’t seemed so different from being a British citizen, but as she watched and listened and learned, reading from the books that were carefully preserved, Holly came to realize that each and every one of the  _ dunedain _ bore an absolute loyalty to their chieftain, though he was away in the south and his mother ruled in his stead. And it wasn’t loyalty out of fear, like Voldemort’s followers, or out of ignorance or blind devotion. The  _ dunedain _ were united in a common purpose, and Aragorn was simply the spearhead, the man who would lead them into the restoration of their kingdom and people.

She had knelt to him, in Elrond’s office, and begged him not to send her away. Holly knew now, as strongly as she had known it was necessary to go after the Philosopher’s Stone, that this was her place. One day, she hoped to kneel before him in the rebuilt courts of Annuminas and pledge again her fealty to him and his line.

Holly was shaken out of her thoughts by the absence of motion, as Hasufel halted, and she looked up to see the road ahead leading to the city, and in the shadow of the city, a line of snow covered mounds rested.

_ No _ , she corrected herself, peering over Aragorn’s shoulder.  _ Not snow. Small white flowers _ .

“ _ Simbelmyne _ ,” Aragorn murmured to her as Gandalf spoke of them. “It grows exclusively over the barrows of the kings of Rohan.”

Listening idly to the others as they spoke of the barrows, and as Aragorn recited a poem of the Rohirrim, Holly glanced over the walls of the city. As she did, she couldn’t help but compare it to the ruined cities of the north.

It was bounded by a mighty wall, she had to admit, though it was nearly obscured by the great wooden fence that stood before it, thorny and impossible to climb without great injury. Certainly defensible. But she remembered her first sight of Annuminas, majestic even in its ruined state, and couldn’t help but wonder if this was the best that Rohan had to offer as the seat of its King.

They moved on, and soon came to the gate, where they were greeted coldly by the gate guards, who barred their way with spears. Gandalf rode at their head, with Boromir and Aragorn on either side and behind him. Glancing over, Holly saw that Boromir had drawn his hood up to cover his face, as he had when they encountered Eomer upon the plains. As they were challenged by the gate guards, Aragorn began translating quietly, just loud enough for her to hear.

“The guards have demanded our names and errands,” he murmured, and Legolas quietly drew closer to them, placing himself directly behind Shadowfax. Normally, Holly would be wary of the horses in such close confines, but all four of their mounts seemed unbothered by the tight quarters. Either it was Shadowfax’s influence, or the warhorses of the Rohirrim were trained to tolerate such crowding. “Gandalf has asked why they do not use Westron.”

He listened to the guard’s reply. “It is by order of Theoden King that only those who use their tongue gain entrance to the city. They have watched us as we approached…” he broke off and nudged Hasufel forward. Holly contemplated slipping off, riding pillion behind Legolas, but by the time she considered it, it would have been more noticeable to move. Silent and still, she listened to him reply to the gate guard, understanding nothing beyond the brief mention of their mounts’ names, and the name of Eomer.

At the mention of Eomer, a shadow passed over the guard’s face, and whatever his reply was, it clearly bothered Gandalf. Aragorn had not a moment to translate before Gandalf was clearly naming the entire company, starting with himself, and moving to Aragorn, then Boromir, then Gimli and Legolas, before adding her own name, as if it was an afterthought. Holly wondered if her presence had slipped his mind, given their reception by the gate guards, but whatever his words had been, they were enough to send the guard further into the city.

Seeing as how none of the gate guards were inclined to bother with them, Holly leaned forward to murmur in Aragorn’s ear: “What news troubled Gandalf so?”

“The orders to bar the gates against all visitors came not from the king himself, but from Wormtongue.” Aragorn shrugged minutely, his shoulder knocking against hers. “Though the name is not familiar to me.”

“He was not well-considered among the riders who accompanied Eomer when we met,” Holly said, her voice low as Boromir and Legolas bunched closer to them to hear. Gandalf may or may not have been contemplating charging the gate, based on the way he watched the guards like a hawk. 

“Grima Wormtongue was an advisor to Theoden King on my last visit to Edoras,” Boromir said, voice barely heard above the flapping of the banners over the gate. “It does not bode well that he gives such orders.”

The guard returned, and this time his words were in Westron, so that they all might understand. “Follow me! Theoden gives you leave to enter; but any weapon that you bear; be it only a staff, you must leave on the threshold. The doorwardens will keep them.”

Crossing under the threshold of the walls, they found themselves in an expansive courtyard, lined on all sides by well-appointed stables. It was here that Holly slid off Hasufel’s broad back, catching his reins, and the reins of Dunstan, as Aragorn and Boromir dismounted.

“Come Thuri,” Gandalf ordered as he followed the gate guard towards the path leading out of the courtyard. “You may not play stablehand this day.”

Grumbling under her breath, Holly relinquished her charges, and Arod who had hung close to his companions, to the stable hand who came rushing out to meet them. Making sure that all of their packs, much lighter than they had been since they left Rivendell, even with the time spent in Lothlorien, were with their owners, she jogged to catch up with the others, falling in at the rear as they began climbing the winding path to the King’s Hall above the city.

She would have much rather stayed and gossiped with the stable hands, but Gandalf seemed to be keeping an eye on her, unwilling to let her slip off and gather what information she could. It was a trick she’d learned from Ginny over the years since Hogwarts: if she was entrenched in the gossip networks, she learned all sorts of interesting things.

Eventually, they came to a great stone plaza, with a massive fountain in the likeness of a horse’s head. Their escort left them there, and they continued up the stairs until they reached the space before the king’s hall and were greeted by the guards there, once more in their own tongue.   
  


Then one of the guards stepped forth. “I am the Doorwarden of Theoden,” he said. “Hama is my name. Here I must bid you to lay aside your weapons before you enter.”

For a moment, none of them moved, but then Legolas handed over his bow, knife, and quiver. Hidden by the depths of her cowl and the shadows of her hood, Holly allowed herself a grin. The elf had a few other, smaller knives that she’d seen, most often used for small tasks and eating, but he had not turned them over. 

_ So this is the game we play _ .

Still awed by whatever Legolas had said to him about the weapons, words Holly had missed as she contemplated her own weaponry, the man carefully, but hastily set aside the elf’s weapons and turned to take the knife Boromir offered him.

“I have no sword nor shield to surrender,” the man said, and she had to look twice to realize that was true. Holly had no memory of the man bearing either during their race, and his horn was missing as well. “We were set upon at Amon Hen and my weapons broken there. It is good fortune that I have not needed them since.”

For a moment, she wondered why he hadn’t mentioned it, but then nearly laughed at her folly. From where could they have outfitted him? The weapons of orcs were ill-equipped for a man’s hand, and ill-forged as well. Shame swept over her as she remembered her jests about who would steer if they had been set upon once they were mounted. He had not said anything, though he would have been close to useless as a combatant.

Boromir’s knife was laid next to Legolas’s, and then the Doorwarden turned to Aragorn, who hesitated. As swords began to be leveled at Aragorn, Holly reached for the knife on her belt. Reaching for her bow would be too threatening, but she would not hesitate to defend her liege lord, even as outnumbered as she was.

Gandalf and Aragorn bickered for a moment, and then the wizard laid his own sword in Hama’s hands, and Aragorn backed down, placing Anduril against the wall and declaring its lineage, which was more than enough reason for the guards surrounding them to stay far away from it, if their anxious glances were any indication.

Grumbling, Gimli laid his axe by the others’ weapons, and then the Doorwarden looked to her.

Holly unhooked her bow from its harness, and passed it over. “These are hardly weapons of legend,” she said, placing her knife and quiver in the man’s hand. “However, I have grown fond of them in the time I’ve used them, and would be ill pleased to replace them now.”

Hama set her weapons aside and then returned to her, hesitating. Confused, Holly stared back until he coughed awkwardly. “Your staff?”

“Ah.” She had forgotten about it, already used to the weight in the improvised harness she had rigged while in Lothlorien. Unlike the harness for her bow, which had been crafted out of a great deal of trial and error to let the weapon come quickly to hand, her staff harness was focused more on transporting it with ease than accessing it for battle. Twisting her arm behind her back, she loosened the straps, letting it slip into her hand. Rather than chancing any change in ownership caused by willing surrender, she laid it next to Anduril.

“This,” she said, stepping back into the group, “is not something I would be touching. I’m not sure what it would do, but it is not likely to be kind to strangers.”

He nodded gravely, and then turned to Gandalf, who was leaning unapologetically on his staff. “You would not deny an old man his walking stick?”

As Holly muffled her snickers, Hama and Gandalf, with a few comments from Aragorn, settled the matter, and Gandalf, looking far older and less steady than she’d ever known him to be, shuffled forward as the guard lifted the heavy bars and swung the doors open.

Stepping onto the floor, Holly felt the tickle of magic rising up to greet her. It was hardly anything compared to Imladris or Lothlorien, or even Eregion, but it made the soles of her feet itch. Someone, at some point, had laid the stones and etched runes into them, and though she could not read their meanings, the resulting magic was enough. Good health, longevity, even a smidgeon of encouragement towards cleanliness...it was a pattern laid out across the floor of the hall.

So distracted by the sensation, she nearly forgot to look at the rest of the hall until Aragorn spoke, and as she looked up, her eye was caught by the sunlight illuminating the tapestry of a man on a white horse. Flashes played at the corner of her eye, phantom images that she brushed away with a shake of her head. It felt a bit like foresight, yet she suspected what she saw to have happened in the distant past. There was not the foreboding of a future event hanging over her head as she was finding visions of the future to carry.

It was a relief to turn her head away from the tapestry and study the rest of the hall. But as they approached the dias at the far end, she found unease coiling in her gut as she studied the man sitting at the king’s feet.

They assembled in silence, until Gandalf finally broke it, greeting the king, who looked wizened and bent, far too old to take the field. There was a slyness to the man sitting below him that worried her, something she could not put her finger on, but there seemed to be something that reminded her of spilled motor oil. Carefully, making certain that she was within reach of Legolas if things should go awry, she opened up her magical senses for the first time since they had met Gandalf and she had been overwhelmed.

The magic in the stones beneath her feet was much less nebulous now, speaking to the strength of those that had etched their runes in the centuries past, but it was almost stifled by a thick, heavy magic, one that draped around the shoulders of the man who sat at the feet of the king.

However, Holly didn’t think the man himself was magical. The magic felt much stronger, and seemed to follow him, not originate from him. But her thoughts were pulled away from the conundrum as the king spoke to Gandalf.

Some instinct, some sense of impending argument that had never fully escaped her since her childhood had her on edge, reaching for the easiest knives to access. Whatever conflict lay between Gandalf and the Rohirric King, or the king’s advisor, she wanted to be prepared for it.

So focused was she on the man and the magic that Holly missed the interplay between Gandalf and the man until she was dragged back to it by the rising feeling of Gandalf’s magic in the hall. Hurriedly pulling her senses back into herself, she found that the hall had darkened around them, as Gandalf shone out. There were sounds of movement, and the man from the dias was complaining about something, but she spun from her position at Aragorn’s left shoulder, placing him at her back, hands ready to draw the knives she still wore concealed on her body. If someone tried to take advantage of this darkness, she would make them regret it.

But no threat came from the shadows, only the king rising, and pacing slowly down the hall, leaning heavily on a young woman who Holly hadn’t noticed before. She fell back with the others, making way for the king, and then joining the trail of courtiers and wizard as the King of Rohan approached the great doors of his hall.

They opened at Gandalf’s call, and the woman was dismissed as the king stepped out into the fresh air under his own power. Everyone was focused on the king, but something about the woman piqued Holly’s curiosity, and she suspected that she alone saw the woman pause and look back at the assembly, and freeze.

Following the direction of the young woman’s eyes, Holly was both surprised and unsurprised to find that they rested on Aragorn, who was now watching Gandalf and the king. As the woman shook herself free of her stupor, she hurried away, deeper into the hall, and Holly felt a strange sense of sympathy, and the urge to go to her, but held herself at her liege lord’s side.

He glanced back and down slightly, as Gandalf spoke to the king. “Go Thuri,” he said under the cover of the conversation before them. “Seek out what news you might find. We will likely ride to Isengard if I have guessed Gandalf’s purpose, and I would know what hope we have.”

Dipping her head slightly, Holly stepped back into the shadows of the hall, her quickly woven Notice-Me-Not and the cloak of Lothlorien saving her from the scrutiny of the men and women who had followed the king out of the hall.

Just inside the doorway, she found the young woman who had frozen upon the sight of Aragorn, the woman who the king had leaned upon as he crossed the distance between his seat and the doors of the halls.

“Pardon me,” she said, startling as Holly ended the spell and scuffed her boot lightly against the stone. “You have caught me unawares. Is there something I might do for you?”

“I apologize for disturbing you, my lady,” Holly said, not bothering to change her voice as she usually would, some instinct warning her that honesty would be best in this conversation. “But I am merely a sworn servant of my lord Aragorn, and I wish to offer my assistance to the household of King Theoden. Our arrival comes at a time of great trial for all the Free Peoples, and do not want our presence here to be a burden.” She pushed her hood back and pulled her cowl down, revealing her pinned up braids.

“Do your people allow women to ride out with their warriors?” the woman blurted out, almost desperately, and then slapped her hand over her mouth. “My apologies my lady, I did not mean to be impertinent. Your presence among us is no burden to apologize for, but a great joy. My uncle has not seemed so lively of late as the troubles of these lands weighed heavily upon him.”

_ Her uncle _ , that placed her in Holly’s mental hierarchy of the court of Rohan. The Lady Eowyn, the king’s niece and Eomer’s sister. “I am no lady, merely a message rider far from home. You have offered no insult my lady. My sworn people do not often send their women to war, but it is not forbidden them. My liege lord has asked me to inquire about the state of your people, given that open war is upon us all, if my lady would tell me?”

There was a shout from outside, and Eowyn shrank back. “I must see to the King’s table,” she murmured, looking deeper into the hall. “For they cannot think to ride off without refreshment.”

“Might I be of assistance my lady?” Holly offered.

“They will not be many in number, and I will wait upon them, but you may also if you insist,” the woman said, turning on her heel. “I must speak with the kitchens, make arrangements. You may come if you will.”

She moved briskly into the hall, and Holly scrambled to pull her hood up over her braids, though she left her cowl down. Following in Eowyn’s wake, she listened and watched as the woman hurried the kitchens into preparing a spread for the King and the visitors, gathering a sense of what the common folk working in the hall thought of the day’s events.

The king’s advisor seemed to be in nobody’s favor, if the gossip amongst the maids was anything to go by. Eowyn caught her listening to the happy murmurs of two women as they gathered up a load of dishes to go to the table that was being prepared for the king and his visitors and scowled.

“If this man was so disliked, why has he lingered in such a high position?” Holly asked as she collected a basket of bread, Eowyn gathering a pitcher and several cups. “What support did he have?”

“He had the king’s support, and that was the only thing that mattered.” The other woman’s lips thinned as they walked towards the hall. “My own brother was imprisoned on his orders; what recourse do you think the rest of us could seek?”

“Eomer, imprisoned? We just met him two days ago, in the Eastemnet.”

They set their burdens down, the faint sound of voices reaching them from outside. Eowyn glanced wistfully at the open doors, and then turned back to face the table. “My brother returned from that meeting with tidings of your presence and deeds, and for his own deeds, riding out against the orders of the king, he was imprisoned.”

Holly glanced over the table as another maid brought a plate of cold meats from the kitchens. “Against the orders of the king, or against the orders of the king’s advisor?”

Eowyn laughed softly, but there was no humor in it, and when Holly glanced at her, there was only despair and rage in her eyes. “Has there been a difference?”

“There was one once,” she murmured, seeing figures in the doorway, backlit by the light from outside, “and there will be again. If what I suspect is correct, the malice of Saruman has hung heavily on these halls, and Gandalf seeks to banish it, if he has not already.”

Warily, as she stepped back to wait at Eowyn’s side, waiting for the other woman’s directives, Holly released her senses once more, and breathed a sigh of relief as she felt the ill magic lessening, being wicked away by the breeze little by little. “Aye,” she said, for their ears alone as the King led her companions, Gandalf, and Eomer to the table that had been prepared, “it is fading already.”

* * *

Eowyn waited on the King and her brother, as was proper, and Holly attended to her companions. Together, they saw that Gandalf needed nothing, though the wizard ate little, drinking deeply during gaps in the conversation. Holly caught Eomer glancing between her and Eowyn, but he held his tongue, and Theoden was too caught up in his conversation with the others to notice her presence at his table.

When the men were settled for a moment, Eowyn gestured for Holly to take a seat on a bench off to the side, and joined her after a moment, two plates of food in her hands. Passing one to Holly, she sat down, and together they ate quickly, watching for if they would be needed, listening to the plans of the kings and princes sitting before them.

Eventually, the king gestured, and men approached the table, bearing armor of the Mark for Holly’s companions. Eowyn glanced at Holly, alarm showing in her eyes, but Holly shook her head. She was happy in her leathers, which had metal plates stitched between the layers to improve their durability, though mail would possibly be more effective. Yet she was willing to risk greater injury to herself if it gave her more mobility and didn’t force her to adjust her fighting style.

“I would go with them,” Eowyn said under her breath, barely audible as she fidgeted with her hands in her lap. “I am a Shieldmaiden of the Mark, I do not fear battle.”

“Battle is not the glory told of in songs,” Holly replied, equally quietly. “Good men die for a valiant cause, and that is cold comfort to those left behind.”

“And what of those left behind before the battle even begins?” the woman demanded hotly, and Holly saw her hands had curled into fists. “To tend the hearths and wait for the wounded and the victors to return, or for our own deaths when the men have fallen?”

“How many children and defenseless would you see dead on a battlefield because they dream of renown? How many orphans would you have weep for their parents, dead upon the battlefields?” Holly felt her own hands fisting in the ends of her tunic, remembering Colin’s limp body, remembering Teddy crying into his pillow when he was old enough to hear the story of his parents. “No, there is no shame in remaining behind to care for those who do not take the field.”

Eowyn seemed as if she would say more, her eyes flashing, but before she could, the King rose, and she was on her feet in a flash, offering the King a cup. “ _ Ferthu Théoden hál! _ ” she said. “Receive now this cup and drink in happy hour. Health be with thee at thy going and coming!”

Holly joined the others, standing at the back of their line as she offered it to them in turn, drinking herself as Eowyn offered it, lips pressed tightly together. “Peace, my lady,” Holly murmured as she returned the cup. “I do not wish to part in anger.”

“We shall have peace,” Eowyn replied, taking back the cup. “Fare thee well my lady.”

* * *

Holly did not see the Lady Eowyn again until they rode out with the host that had mustered at the gates of Edoras. She had removed herself to the stables to look after their horses and prepare them, but when she looked up towards the hall upon seeing the king and his party descend, Holly beheld a figure clad in shining mail standing at the head of the stairs. Though the lady would not be able to see her, she saluted, and then turned back to readying their horses.

* * *

Aragorn took Hasufel from her, and Arod went to Legolas as the elf approached, leaving her with Dunstan. Boromir was speaking quietly with Eomer, and the pair of them had fallen behind the rest of the company. Holly was about to boost Gimli up behind Legolas, but a call from Eomer stopped her.

Leaving the dwarf to speak with Eomer, she brought Dunstan to Boromir, who looked grim as he took the reins from her.

“Rohan is ill-equipped to stand against Isengard,” he murmured, casting a glance over the assembled Rohirrim. “Yet their strength is what we must depend on if my people are to survive what lies ahead.”

“Then we must ensure that Rohan does not fall,” Holly said firmly, checking the girth one last time, knowing she was fussing needlessly. “We have survived the darkness of Moria and Durin’s Bane, which is more than most of those who live in this Age can claim. Perhaps that will be what tips the scales in Rohan’s favor.”

“I am sorry we cannot offer you a mount of your own,” Eomer said, pulling up abreast of them, Gimli balanced behind him on his mount. “Yet all of our spares are given to those who need them.”

“We have come this far with me riding pillion,” Holly replied with a short bow. “I thank you for your consideration my lord, but I will be fine so long as my companions consent to bear me once more.”

“Ride with me first Thuri,” Legolas said, reaching down to help lift her up onto Arod. “We shall set out together, since Gimli is riding with Eomer.”

Wrapping her arms around his waist, Holly made sure that her weapons were secured. “Perhaps by the time this journey is ended, we will have perfected a moving rider exchange, given the amount of practice we will have had.”

Her words drew a laugh from Eomer and Gimli, and Aragorn who had just approached after speaking with Gandalf. Even Boromir had a faint grin on his face.

“And yet you ride pillion my friend!” a voice called, and Eomer’s second approached, with several others Holly recognized behind him. “How have our horses measured against your northern mounts?”

“There is none that can match a Rohirric warhorse in strength,” she replied as they moved out westwards with the host. “Though I have yet to experience that strength as a rider and not baggage.”

“Perhaps you will one day manage such a feat,” Eomer’s second fell into place off Arod’s left shoulder as the host swung westward towards the river ford there.

A flicker of instinct guided her tongue. “I do not think I will.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What shall we give, to see Rohan survive this night?”

**Chapter Thirteen:**

The ride seemed near interminable, but Holly made the best of it, chatting and making connections with Eomer’s riders as they gathered around their leader. Eomer himself was often conversing with Boromir and Aragorn, and occasionally with Gimli, but it was his men that Holly was interested in learning about.

After two hours, they slowed their pace slightly, and she saw her chance. “Mind some extra baggage?” she asked as Eomer’s second, who she had learned was called Eothain, drew up alongside Arod.

“We cannot stop to change riders,” he said, glancing around at the others. “Or I would bear you forth.”

“Who said anything about stopping?” she grinned beneath her cowl and carefully swung her leg over Arod’s side so she was sitting sidesaddle. “Be ready to grab me.”

Before Eothain could protest, she was sliding to the ground, hands already reaching up, one to grab the back of his saddle and the other gripped his forearm tightly. With a mighty push off the ground, she pulled herself up with Eothain’s help, finding her seat after a moment.

As she wrapped her arm around his middle, she felt him let out a sigh. “How did you figure that one out?”

“Practice,” she said, shrugging. “We lose horses, and then we have to double up, and you learn little tricks to keep from having to stop in areas where you’d rather move through at all due haste. That one took me several months to learn.”

“It certainly looks flashy,” one of Eothain’s men replied with a laugh. “But I bet it doesn’t work so well if you’re aiming for the saddle.”

“Not your high saddles, no,” Holly agreed, tracing the back of Eothain’s saddle lightly. “We do much less mounted combat though, so our saddles are cut lower, for speed. My saddle as a messenger was one of the lightest and the smallest we had.”

“Tell us of your northern plains,” Eothain clicked at his mount, and they sped up with the rest of the column. “How do they compare?”

“They are still hard with frost!” Laughing, Holly wiped off a gob of mud that had been kicked up into her face by the horse in front of them. “Though spring will come soon, the frost has not left the northlands yet, making footing firm for those who must ride. In a month, even the old roads will be nigh impassable by horse or cart, between the rains and snowmelt. Yet in the peak of summer, when the gorse and heather are in bloom, there is no better way to spend the day than riding across the downs. Even the fields before Fornost, haunted by the fell deeds of Angmar, cannot be gloomy in such weather. And,” she sighed, “there is little better than standing on the shores of Lake Nenuial and watching the sun set in the west, sending its flames of color across her still waters. On Midsummer, the bonfires burn bright and the songs of the north are sung, and all is merry. For a time, we forget our trials and embrace our hopes that one day we might no longer be wanderers in our own lands.”

“Will you sing one of your songs?” a young lad, barely old enough to ride with them if Holly could guess his age under his helmet, called from somewhere off to her left. “I want to hear how they differ from those that we sing.”

“My lord?” Holly asked, turning to look for Aragorn, who had broken off his conversation with Eomer to listen, or so it seemed. “Permission to sing?”

He exchanged glances with Eomer and nodded at the other man’s shrug. “Sing away Thuri, if you’ve the breath for it.”

Taking a deep breath, she thought through her mental library of songs until she found one that felt trivial enough to sing.  _ The problem is _ , she reflected wryly as she hummed the opening bars,  _ so many of our songs have roots in our longing _ . The songs of the north weren’t meant for outsiders. But this one was harmless enough.

“ _ Near Kingsfell, in the Northern Downs _

_ One morning last Cermië  _

_ From a track so green came a fair lady _

_ And she smiled as she passed me by. _

_ She looked so sweet from her two bare feet _

_ To the sheen of her wheat-gold hair _

_ Such a coaxing elf, sure I shook myself _

_ For to see I was really there _ ”

To her surprise, another voice joined her on the chorus, and she faltered for a moment as she glanced over at Aragorn, who grinned at her, looking years younger as he sang:

“ _ From Tinnudir to Dolindir _

_ Lin Giliath to Othrikar _

_ No maid I’ve seen like the fair lady _

_ That I met on the Northern Downs. _ ”

They sang the other two verses together, and by the last chorus, the Rohirrim around them had picked it up and joined in heartily. If she closed her eyes, Holly could almost pretend that she was back in the north with the  _ dunedain _ , and it made her homesick.

After they had finished, it was the Rohirrim’s turn to share a song, and they traded off intermittently for the next few hours until darkness made it unwise to go further. Gimli and Legolas had been persuaded to share their own songs, and given that Legolas was humming absentmindedly as they sat around the fire that night, she suspected that he might be coming up with a new one.

Her good mood plummeted as she watched Aragorn unroll his bedroll near Eomer and the other captains, Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli nearby. She herself had been assigned a place on the night’s watch and a place among the men of Eomer’s  _ eored _ . 

For the first time since they left the sanctuary of Imladris, she felt the distance between them, and found herself resenting it. Holly had come to enjoy the quiet companionship she had formed with Aragorn, the easy way they had fallen into it, moving instinctively together as they scouted ahead through the Trollshaws and Eregion, watching each other’s backs in Moria, and then again in Parth Galen. But he was a King, or he would be should they survive this, and her own choices had made her a message rider and informant.

Nominally, she had reported to Saeradan while she was in Bree, though they both knew that it was mostly for convenience, and realistically she’d reported to Halbarad and Daervunn. The Rangers didn’t know what to do with her after a time, given that she was skilled enough and old enough in their eyes to warrant being given at least a minor command of her own.

She could remember  _ that _ conversation with Halbarad.

_ “I’m running out of places to put you _ ,”  _ he had said as she lounged on his cot, flipping through the journal that one of Calenglad’s Wardens had found locked away in one of the tombs. It seemed to be little of actual import, unless you were interested in the ramblings of one of Tarcil’s economic advisors. But there were little sketches and notes in the margins that offered a glimpse into court life.  _

_ “Send me where I’m needed,” Holly rotated the journal a bit, trying to get a better look at the depiction of a glass window in the royal palace, likely long broken. “You’ve always done that.” _

_ “Calenglad won’t take you with the Wardens anymore,” Halbarad sighed, glancing over her shoulder. “That’s the main hall in Ost Elendil by the way.” _

_ “Why not?” she asked, turning the page to find a scathing caricature of what had to be another court member. “I’ve almost memorized the city layout by now. We always have fewer casualties from pushing back the Angmarim and bandits when I’m there.” _

_ “Because you’re carried back here half dead,” he huffed, and dropped down in his desk chair. “It draws too much attention, and then Angmar sends extra forces and we end up losing ground and lives because of that.” _

_ “You can’t send me north,” Holly sat up straight, setting the journal aside. “Your chieftain gave orders that Golodir disobeyed.” _

_ Halbarad’s sigh was longsuffering. “I doubt they’ve forgotten you there either,” he said with a grim laugh. “Given that you were left outside the city for dead and carried here with your back in shreds.” Rubbing his forehead, he glanced at the map hanging above his desk. “I’d send you to the borders of the Shire, but if the Enemy finds you there and realizes that you’re their biggest pain in the ass, I’m worried about the collateral damage.” _

_ “Plus you’re worried about what I’d do if I got bored,” Holly said, rising and looking at the map as well. “We don’t interfere with Trestlebridge, so you can’t send me there.” _

_ “Are you sure you don’t want to seek out the wizards?” _

_ “No,” Holly said, leveling him with a flat look. “You know I don’t want that sort of attention.” _

_ “Would you at least consider going to Imladris?” Halbarad ran his hand through his hair and looked up at her. “Lord Elrond is wise in his own right. He may be able to help.” _

_ “I’m just another Ranger Hal,” she said, giving into the impulse to finger comb his hair back into order. “You can order me away, but we both know I’m happier where I can be of use.” _

_ He reached up and squeezed her hand gently. “We’ll set you to riding messages,” he said, tracing the path between Tinnudir and Esteldin. “You’re small enough and light enough, and your riding skills are much improved from when you came to us. If that somehow fails to keep you busy and useful, we can still send you south, to Tharbad or to Sarn Ford, or maybe east into the Lone Lands.” _

_ “You’re going to get me to Imladris no matter what I say,” Holly teased, dropping back down to sit on his cot and pick up the journal again. “Well, I’ll just have to make sure my message riding days last.” _

_ “You’d be a lot easier to place if you stopped sacrificing your own well-being so often,” he grumbled, reaching for his ledger and quill. “I could trust you with a company of your own then.” _

_ “I don’t want to be a leader,” she protested, trying to find that caricature again. “But if I did, my saving-people thing means that anyone with me is more likely to survive.” _

_ “You’d spend more time with the healers than actually leading,” Halbarad said crossly. “Whichever poor sod gets stuck as your second is going to be leading more often than not, and that rather negates the point of you leading in the first place. And when you lose someone, you’re going to take it harder than everyone else.” _

_ “I’m not a stranger to loss!” she snapped, contemplating throwing his pillow at him. The journal was too valuable to risk even though she was frustrated by the accusation. “You know that!” _

_ “And when it’s men you command?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “When we’re singing their memorials? Don’t try to lie to me and tell me that you’re not going to take every single death as a personal failure.” _

_ “Why shouldn’t I?” Holly hissed, fingers clenching in the blanket underneath her. “I can take hits, I can survive more than any of them could. Why should any of them die?” _

_ “Because that is the risk a soldier takes when they fight a war!” Halbarad shouted, voice nearly overpowering in the small room. “Soldiers die in war, it’s a fact. Not even you can stop a kill shot across the battlefield. You are not all powerful!” _

_ “What good is this then?” she unclenched her fingers and gestured to herself. “What good is life unchanging if I can’t use it to save other lives?” _

_ “One day I will die.” His voice was calm now, eyes focused on hers and Holly found she could not look away. “Whether of old age or in a skirmish, I will die. And Daervunn will die. And Calenglad. All of us will go to the Hall of Mandos and whatever lies beyond. You cannot stop that, and I hope that you will come to accept it in time.” _

Holly shook herself out of the memory, Halbarad’s words heavy on her heart as she looked at the men surrounding her. Some of these men would not survive the coming battles, no matter how hard she tried. What she had done for Boromir, she could not do for all.

Her hand clenched around something sharp, the edges barely dulled by the leather of her gloves, and Holly found that she was holding the Resurrection Stone. With a scowl, she slid it back into her belt pouch and wrapped herself in her cloak before lowering herself onto her bedroll. The soldiers around her glanced at her, but continued their conversations. Restless, she closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep, hoping that she could go back to ignoring uncomfortable truths by the time they woke her for her watch shift.

* * *

The host woke as a whole at dawn, when the horns rang out, and within an hour, Holly found herself sitting behind another member of Eomer’s  _ eored _ . After the day before, as she switched between the horses of her companions and Eothain, there was no shortage of men offering to let her ride pillion with them, enough so that every time they slowed, about once an hour if she was any good at estimating time, there was a rider drawing even with them and extending their arm for her to join them.

“I think you’ll have to teach us this,” Eothain said, laughing as she made a face at the mud she had landed in during her brief contact with the ground before remounting. “Many of the riders are taking note.”

“It takes practice, and trust,” Holly shrugged, doing her best to wipe away the globs of mud and grass that had clung to her boots. Giving up, she cleaned her fingers on the edge of her cloak before reaching for the small pouch of mixed nuts and dried fruit that she had saved from their breakfast rations and tied to her belt. Taking a few, she offered it to her current host. “Hungry?”

A chorus of teasing protests rose up around her, and she grinned, tying the pouch back to her belt. “If you wanted me to give you food, you should have been riding with me when I was hungry,” she shouted back to the others, who laughed and continued to rib each other, and herself, good naturedly.

It was a pleasant diversion from the knowledge that they were likely too few to stand against the horrors that Saruman has mustered against them. Holly had listened to Eothain’s reports, heard about how Theodred was routed at the Fords of Isen, and suspected that Saruman had not yet chosen to unleash his full strength, but now that Theoden rode to war, he would likely let the heaviest blow yet fall.

They did not stop at sunset, but a rider found them. Holly was riding with Eothain at that moment, and heard the report of how the garrison at the Fords of Isen fell, how the men there were scattered.

Gandalf took his leave of them then, but not before he beckoned Holly close to him. Sliding off Eothain’s horse, she stood on her tiptoes as he leaned down to speak directly in his ear.

“Guard yourself, Thuri,” he murmured, beard brushing against her hood. “I do not think that Saruman knows of your talents, but if he should, he will turn his attention to you. My lady is gifted with foresight, but I am not, so I cannot say where your path may lead, but I do not think the coming battle is the last one you shall see in this war.”

Without giving her a chance to speak, he spoke a word to Shadowfax, and then they were off at a speed no other horse could follow. Ignoring Eothain as he gestured for her to rejoin him, Holly approached Boromir and bowed slightly, since Aragorn was still huddled with Theoden and Eomer.

“Might I ride once more with you, my lord?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said, reaching down to help her up. “Finished making new friends?”

“Rohan cannot hold off Isengard without heavy losses,” she leaned forward to whisper in his ear, careful not to let any of the others overhear their conversation. “They have already lost a Prince to Saruman’s evils, will they also lose a King? His nephew? Should our Company stake its all on the survival of Rohan, or do we make provisions to warn your people should Rohan fall?”

Pressed against Boromir’s back, she could feel the tremor that shook him as he considered her words. “I would have my people warned, if the worst should happen and Saruman’s evil prevail,” he breathed, so softly she could barely hear him. “Yet my will means nothing against my king’s, and he has not bid me to make provision.”

“I will need a moment with him,” Holly murmured, resting her forehead against his shoulder as they moved out, heedless of the encroaching darkness. “Before the battle is upon us, I must speak with him about his will for me.”

* * *

They reached Helm’s Dike with little challenge from the foe, though Holly heard that the scouts reported archers and wolf-riders as they crossed through the valley. Though they rode in the van, Holly found little use for her arrows, as the orcs they encountered fled before the host, likely taking word of their numbers and progress to the might army that followed them through the coomb.

Despite her desire to go amongst the men stationed at the Dike, Holly stuck to Boromir as they halted and listened to the reports of their captain. There was no word of Erkenbrand, or the majority of his host, which left an ill-feeling in her stomach.

Once before she had stood in a castle with the enemy beating down the door, and once before reinforcements had arrived when they were least expected. Yet they did not arrive soon enough for Colin, for Fred, for Tonks and Remus…

As they poured into the Hornburg, Holly snatched Dunstan’s reins from Boromir, heading for where Aragorn was standing, Hasufel at his elbow. “My lord,” she said, under the cover of hooves stomping and tack jangling. It grated on her ears, and she missed the muffled sounds that the Rangers preferred, since their strength lay in secrecy and stealth. “My lord, I must speak with you.”

He turned to her, passing off Hasufel’s reins to a young boy who came running, motioning for the boy to take Dunstan, and Arod trailed after the other two as they were led away. “What is it?” he murmured, taking her by the elbow and steering her into the shadows cast by the wall. “Have you seen something? What message did Gandalf impart to you?”

“Gandalf offered nothing but a warning,” Holly said, peering through the shadows to try and see the expression on his face. “He fears that Saruman might take an interest in me if my skills became known through some work during this battle. I have seen nothing of this, but neither Gandalf nor I feel that this will be my last battle of this war.”

She paused for breath, but did not let Aragorn speak. “My lord, you must hear my words and understand them, for it is critical.  _ I do not die as mortal men _ . Whatever may befall me during this battle, I will survive it, though I may be gravely wounded. Do not bury me, and do not burn me. With time I will heal and ride forth again. If you must lay me to rest, place me in a quiet cave where I might be undisturbed, but otherwise, send me to the healers.”

Pausing again, she peered at his face. “My lord, I do not wish to ask, but I must. What shall we give, to see Rohan survive this night?”

“I do not understand your words,” Aragorn said heavily. “Your directives regarding yourself are simple, though puzzling, but I do not understand what you are asking of me.”

“My lord, I am sworn to your service and to your protection,” Holly said, glancing over at Eomer and Theoden as they conferred in the courtyard before the Hornburg. “Unless you order me otherwise, I will protect you even if it means that King Theoden and his nephew fall. If it means Legolas and Gimli and Boromir fall. The oaths I have sworn bid me to place myself between you and death and I will not forsake them. If Rohan falls, I will put you on a horse and ride for Gondor, with or without your cooperation, if I must. Now is the time for you to order me otherwise, if you wish to.”

A low sound, as if he’d been punched, escaped Aragorn. “I did not realize your oaths were so comprehensive,” he murmured, and she wished she could see the expression on his face. “The oaths sworn by the Rangers are usually oaths of service, not nearly so binding.”

“Your lady mother, and your kinsman Halbarad, upon learning of my...talents, wrote them to take advantage of what I offered freely,” she admitted, wishing that Halbarad was there with all the Rangers he could gather. “When I swore my oaths, I was well versed in the history of these lands and your people, or as well versed as I could be. It was clear to me that you and your descendents are the best hope that your people have, and as such, I swore myself to the preservation of your line above all else. My lady Gilraen gave me a place in the north, as you were oft away and to send me then would possibly betray you, and then Halbarad continued to give me work where I was needed, since you were long away on ceaseless errands. We suspected, though, that I would be sent off to war if you ever rode forth, and it was sheer coincidence that placed us both in Bree, though I do not regret it.”

She heard him take a deep breath, as if drawing himself up, and then he spoke, and she shivered as the weight of his words lay heavy on her shoulders, much as her original oaths had. “Thuri of the Rangers, as your sworn liege lord, I bid you thus: be it within your power, the House of Eorl and the Line of Isildur must live to see the end of this battle. Should the Hornburg fall, you will gather what survivors you may and seek me out, and we will pass through the secret ways into the hills and seek out Gondor. If any of the lines are ended, you are not to blame yourself, or seek penance. Come to me, should the House of Eorl fall, and if I should fall, then you are to go to Gondor, and seek out either the Lord Denethor or his son Faramir, should Boromir fall, and warn them of the events that have transpired. Once your work in Gondor is done, you are to return to Halbarad, as your oaths to me will have been released by my death.”

Reviewing the phrasing, Holly scowled up at him. “You worded that such that it is impossible for the House of Eorl to fall, so long as Edoras remains untouched by battle until our fate here is decided.”

As he turned towards the torches that were being lit in the courtyard as men moved to and fro, preparing for battle, Holly caught a glimpse of a faint smile on his lips. “I did not want to lay upon you a burden that could not be borne. I trust that if I keep you by my side, the line of Isildur will continue, and even should Eomer and Theoden fall this night, the line of Eorl survives in the Lady of Rohan.”

“Many burdens have been laid upon me and I have borne them all with as much grace as I could muster at the time,” Holly muttered as they stepped out into the courtyard. “I am yours to command my lord.”

* * *

Holly was perched atop the wall, lying flat on her stomach, as the screams from the Dike drifted over the winds to those on the Deeping Wall. There were places in the wall below for her to shoot, but she wanted the flexibility to move as she pleased, at least during the initial portion of the battle.

Below her, Aragorn and Eomer were talking quietly as they waited, likely watching the same steady progression of torches in the valley below, wondering how many of those who had screamed breathed no more, or would not live to see the dawning.

Not long after the sortie at the Dike, horsemen came thundering up to the Hornburg Gate, and Holly could hear their reports as they called out: how the Dike had been overrun and the enemy approached unhindered. Many of the mounts carried more than one rider, but many, many more bore only one rider to the Hornburg.

The Gate was soon closed once more, the last survivors safe within the fastness of the Hornburg and the Deeping Wall, but Holly feared that it would not be enough. While the hands that had hewn the stone for this fortress had made it the most secure she had yet encountered, Holly couldn’t help but remember that, in the end, there had been no charm, spell, ward, nor wall that had kept Voldemort from his victims. 

She slithered down to the battlements below as lightning cracked overhead, narrowly avoiding landing on Aragorn, who seemed to have been crouched below her. “There are orcs and worse below,” she said, regaining her balance and drawing under the shelter of the parapet as the rain began to pelt down. “If it were daylight, I do not think we would see a single blade of grass.”

Aragorn and Eomer looked grim, but said nothing, only exchanging a long glance as they positioned themselves to view the fields before the Deeping Wall through the arrow slots in the wall.

Horns boomed from the fields before them, and Holly watched as the lightning illuminated a host approaching the causeway ramp that led to the Hornburg Gate. Around her, the Rohirrim were finally responding with arrow and stone, but Holly kept her bow and staff strapped in their harnesses. With her orders laid on her by Aragorn, she would keep close to him, and to Eomer, if possible, and if that failed, she would seek out Boromir, who had stayed with Legolas and Gimli, at Eomer’s quiet request. While the Rohirrim were grateful for any ally this night, there were those who looked with suspicion on the elf and dwarf, so clearly not men, and rarely seen in the Riddermark of late.

“Rams,” she called to Aragorn, spotting the movement in the host as it crept forward, inching ever closer to the Gate with each sally. “Two great trees, carried by a host of men.”

“Will you follow?” Aragorn asked lowly, and she nodded, keeping pace with him as he sped off with Eomer, leading them to a small postern gate that she had vaguely noticed before. He was about to lead them down the narrow path, but Holly brushed past him, reaching for the knives she had left hanging from her belt for easier access.

“With all due respect my lord,” she breathed as she went. “Let me scout ahead.”

It was unlikely that the enemy had discerned the location of the gate, and indeed, she met neither friend nor foe on the short trek to the main causeway. Aragorn and Eomer were hard on her heels, and Holly shrunk against the rock to let them past her, weaving a weak Notice-Me-Not around her before she plunged into the fray, her knives barely reflecting any light to give her away.  _ Andúril and Eomer’s blade may blaze all they want _ , she thought, downing one of the ram carriers and ducking under a wild swing from an orc before she drove a blade through his kidney,  _ but I intend to go unnoticed until it is too late _ .

Daervunn, who had dabbled in smithing and weapons crafting in his spare time, had taught her how to darken her blades, so that an errant reflection would not give her away when she was scouting or sneaking around. It was something she had learned from the Trév Gállorg, but Daervunn had taught her how the Rangers made the blackening nearly permanent, instead of the temporarily smoke-darkening that could be done before leaving their camps.

Regretfully, as she ducked a wild swing from a mace as she fought her way towards where she could see Andúril glimmer ahead of her, Holly wished that Daervunn was by her side, with a full company of Rangers. But there had been no way to bring an entire company in secrecy, and that was the whole point of sending the ten of them from Imladris in the first place.

Seeing that the others had matters well in hand, Holly knelt down next to one of the rams and put her hand on the log. It was too newly cut, she determined, and too wet from the rain that was still falling overhead. Otherwise she would have burned them, and let the fire be a further deterrent for those who would dare the causeway.

“You, you, and you,” she snapped, letting her charm fall away. “Help me get these braced against the Gate.”

The three soldiers that she had snapped at glanced towards Eomer and Aragorn, and then turned to obey her when neither man contradicted her. Together, thanks to a slight featherweight spell, they lifted the logs and braced them in the gateway.  _ If we had time, _ Holly thought, dodging a fresh rain of arrows as she returned for the next log,  _ I would have them open the gates and take these inside to brace from there, but this is what I can do _ .

She supposed that they could have rolled the logs into the darkness beneath the causeway, but at that point it would only be a matter of time for another group of ram bearers to assemble and retrieve them. No, at least this way she might make it more difficult for them to be further used against them.

As the defenders wedged the second ram into the gate and slipped off towards the still hidden postern gate, Holly leaned against the logs and wove the weakest permanent sticking charm she could into the wood, making sure that it would hinder and delay all attempts to move it. Cutting off her magic at the sound of a scuffle, she turned to see Eomer fall, and a dozen orcs rise up to finish the job.

Lunging, she plunged her knives into two of them, and heard Aragorn shout, but it was a familiar voice that was closer. She reached out again with her knives, but there was no foe in range, so she sheathed them and reached down to help Eomer to his feet, glancing sideways to see Aragorn and Gimli speaking as they faced down any foe who might seek to brave the causeway. With a push, Holly sent Eomer stumbling towards the postern gate and then she caught Aragorn’s eye and jerked her head in the same direction, refusing to let him act as rearguard.

Gimli fell in beside her as they crept back to the Hornburg. “My thanks, Master Gimli,” Holly said, just loud enough to be heard over the rain and the continuing battle. “Were it not for your axe, the House of Eorl might have suffered further loss.”

“My axe has grown tired of hewing naught but wood since we set forth from Rauros,” the dwarf growled as they slipped inside the postern gate and moved out of the way for the men who were waiting with stone and timber to barricade it behind them. Eomer hailed him, and the dwarf moved off to speak with the man, but Holly noticed Legolas and Boromir standing at the base of the steps leading to the Deeping Wall.

“It is a poor night for arrows,” Holly commented as she joined them, sheathing her knives once more. “Yet I see that you have made good use of yours?”

Legolas gestured at the mismatched assortment of shafts in his quiver. “I have spent all mine, and have salvaged what spent shafts I might, though it is mere leaves on a tree in the scheme of things. What news from outside the gate?”

“We have cleared the causeway for the moment,” she reported, taking a sip from the flask Boromir handed her before she passed it back. “Though were it not for Master Gimli’s timely assistance, we would have lost Eomer in returning.”

The dwarf, hearing his name, drifted over, and the unlikely trio moved back towards the stairs, deep in banter over what seemed to be kill counts. Holly smiled slightly, and turned back to Aragorn and Eomer, who were supervising the efforts to brace the main gate.

There was work for her knives on the walls now, as great ladders were lifted up, and as quickly as they were thrown down by the defenders, more were raised. Holly kept close to Aragorn’s heels, unwilling to let him out of her sight, the earlier incident with Eomer proving that calamity could befall either of her charges when her back was turned. The rain slackened, and the moon peeked out from behind the clouds, but it brought no ceasing of the assault from beyond the walls.

She was dispatching an orc who had managed to scramble over the walls when a great hoarse shout rang out from the Deep below, intermingled with the screams of horses.

“Ai-oi!” Gimli shouted from somewhere below. “The Orcs are behind the wall. Ai-oi! Come, Legolas! There are enough for us both.  _ Khazâd ai-mênu _ !”

A man’s voice took up the cry, and Holly had to turn away, gritting her teeth as she tried to put her trust in the strength of Gimli and his gathered defenders. Aragorn and Eomer were hard beset, keeping the ladders from gaining any purchase, and she found welcome assistance in the knives of Legolas and a sword that Boromir must have received when the Rohirrim armored them in Edoras. By the time Gimli and one of the Rohirrim found them on the wall, splattered with mud and other foul fluids, they had dispatched the foe and earned a respite, but she could not bring herself to rest securely, tucking herself into a niche in the wall and watching the shadows writhe below them.

Their respite was cut short by another booming horn call, and then the wall shook under their feet, nearly throwing her to the walkway below. Flame and smoke shot up from further down the wall, the rising cloud of steam not enough to obscure the horde of dark forms charging through the breach in the Deeping Wall.

As they moved towards the breach, only a hiss of displaced air warned Holly, her instincts thrumming with warning as she threw herself at Aragorn, knocking him to the stones of the walkway before she rolled and came up, knives flashing. New ladders had been thrown up while they were distracted, and the enemy poured over the wall.

Everything became a blur to Holly as she made the enemy pay for each and every step they were driven back. She was aware of Aragorn at her side, and Legolas just behind them, but they were fighting a losing battle to hold the wall.

“My lord,” she shouted, driving her blade into a gap in one orc’s armor before she whirled and slit the throat of a Dunlanding man who was coming up behind her with his sword raised. “My lord, we must fall back!”

They had followed the fighting into the Deep, swept away by the tide, but at her words, Aragorn changed directions, heading for the stairs that led up to the central courtyard before the Hornburg. Together, the two of them held the steps for the retreating Rohirrim, Legolas behind them with his bow, helping thin the ranks of the foes approaching them.

Boromir reached them, sword dark with blood. “Fall back,” he said, cleaving a foe with a mighty sweep. “You have arrows yet, have you not Thuri?”

She nodded, and leapt up the steps to join Legolas, pulling her bow free and drawing an arrow, feeling her lips stretch up into a grin as she let it fly, and it lodged itself in the eye of an orc charging Aragorn and Boromir. Holly knew she was not normally that accurate in a fight, particularly when she was as weary as she felt now, but she did enjoy the moments when she could make those showy shots.

Legolas turned at her side to listen to something above them, and then he was calling out for the men below to retreat, that any who were coming had made it safely to the shelter of the Hornburg. They turned, and began to make the climb, but Holly screamed as she saw Aragorn falter and stumble, the press of orcs behind them surging forward. One went down with an arrow, which she vaguely attributed to Legolas, but before her eyes, Boromir threw himself at the orcs, sword flashing as he defended their fallen king.

She was up and running, heaving Aragorn to his feet and thrusting him up the stairs towards Legolas, before she had time to process what she was doing. Holly felled three orcs before she reached Boromir, but she was too late.

A massive orc drove the blunt end of a heavy warhammer into his chest, and as Boromir buckled, the orc reversed the hammer and swung the lethal looking spike down. Red rage filled her eyes, and Holly threw herself at the orc, dragging her blade across his throat before slinging Boromir’s arm over her shoulder and reaching for a featherlight charm entwined with a Notice-Me-Not. 

Somehow, the stairs felt miles long, but when she reached the top, hands were reaching for Boromir. She resisted at first, and then realized that it was Aragorn and Legolas, and she surrendered Boromir to them, releasing the Notice-Me-Not as she let go.

They laid him out on the slick stones of the courtyard before the Hornburg, and Holly knelt next to him, laying her hands on his chest. She suspected at least broken ribs, but she could  _ heal _ …

“No,” Boromir gasped out, reaching up and grasping her hand weakly. “Not...this...time.”

“Shut up,” she grunted, scrabbling for his bare skin. Working magic through armor was going to make this worse. “Talking only makes this worse.”

She nearly sobbed as her magic reached into his body and felt only wrongness, and wished desperately that she had undertaken at least a little bit of studying as a healer. Holly braced herself and prepared to brute force this once more, but Boromir shook his head slowly.

“You...cannot,” he insisted, coughing weakly, and she suspected, from the wetness of the sound, that she was coughing up blood. “You...must...save your strength. The battle...is not...over. This...is my time.”

“I  _ can _ ,” she snapped, trying to dislodge his grip on her hand so she could get both hands on him and start  _ fixing _ , but he held firm. “I’ve done it before and you know it.”

“At...what...cost?” Boromir coughed again, and this time she saw a trickle of blood out of the corner of his mouth. “Our King...must live. Rohan...must not fall. You will be needed.”

Holly opened her mouth to protest, but he squeezed her hand. “Swear to me,” he groaned as he tried to push himself upright. “You...will not...drain yourself saving me.”

In defiance, she reached down into the stone, only to choke on the despair that bubbled up in her. Despite the ancient fastness of the fortress, there was little to no magic left in it, not like there had been at Parth Galen. Boromir was right, if she saved his life, she would have to use every drop of magic left in her, which would leave her useless.

Tears burned at the corner of her eyes, and she reached up with her free hand to dash them away angrily. He would not survive these injuries, she could tell that much of their severity. Boromir would struggle and suffer until death came to him.

“As you wish, I swear it,” she murmured, bowing her head over his hand. “Yet I would offer you one final gift, if you will let me. When my lord Irmo came to me, he spoke not only of binding souls, but of sundering them. If you will ask it of me, I will soothe your passage into the Halls of Mandos and what lies beyond them.”

“It would…” Boromir drew in a ragged breath and closed his eyes “...be a comfort.”

“My lord?” Holly called, and Aragorn was soon at her side. “He has asked that I let him go. Do you have anything to say to him?”

Aragorn looked shaken, but drew himself together and leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Boromir’s brow. “Fare the well, my brother. May you find peace and happiness. Go with all honor and glory, as befitting the greatest of heroes in this life and the next. I will not let our people falter while there is breath in my body and strength in my hand.”

“Farewell, Boromir of Gondor!” Legolas said, kneeling next to them. “May the Valar carry you swiftly to your rest.”

Holly shifted, gently easing Boromir’s head onto her lap, and placing her hands on either side of his head. “We did not get on well at the start my friend,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “But I am proud to call you my friend, if you name me so.”

Boromir let out a painful sounding chuckle. “When you reach Minas Tirith,” he said, breathing evening out as she eased her magic into place, blocking the pain. “Seek out my brother, and tell him that this time I failed and he would have succeeded.Tell him...he was the better of us.”

“I will tell him that you lived and died as a good man,” she said, easing him into slumber. “A man worthy of all honor.” Gently, she reached for his soul, grasping it as if she cradled it within her metaphysical hands. Though her eyes were still closed, she thought she could see a tall, hooded figure before her.

“This is Boromir, son of Denathor, who in life was one of the ten members sent to accompany the Ringbearer and the son of the Steward of Gondor,” Holly murmured, offering the figure the soul. “If my lord will, I offer his soul into your realm.”

The figure reached out, and took the soul from her hands. “Well met, Harry Potter,” a low voice intoned. “You have learned well, the limitations my brother explained to you.”

“Why would I curse another with my fate?” she shrugged, before bowing deeply. “I leave him in your care, to be shepherded to the fate that awaits him.”

Gravely, the figure nodded, and then she opened her eyes, and knew that Boromir was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have recognized the tune that Holly sings as "The Star of the County Down", adapted for Middle Earth! I like listening to the Loreena McKennitt version myself, but there's a number of excellent versions out there.
> 
> Watch for something new tomorrow- I'll be posting an extra one-shot that's an AU for this chapter.
> 
> Also, if I were to start posting snippets from the multitude of quasi-sequels I'm toying with on my tumblr, would people wander over there to take a look and let me know which one you're most interested in? Let me know in the reviews if you'd be interested in/willing to comment on what you want to see next.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She would face Boromir as herself, this last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! See the end notes for news about upcoming projects.

A man came forward with a length of cloth and draped it over Boromir’s body. Four Rohirrim bore the body into the inner keep, with Aragorn at their heels as he sought out the king.

Holly stayed outside in the cool night air, Legolas at her side.

“Where is Gimli?” she asked after several long moments, tucking herself out of the bustle of the remaining defenders as they hurried too and fro, shoring up the keep. “We have not lost him?”

“He has not come to the keep,” the elf said lowly, eyes darting about as he sat next to her on the damp stone of the courtyard. “The men say that Eomer has not returned either, nor many men. There is a chance that they reached the caves, and might hold the fastness there.”

“Ill-news,” Holly sighed, closing her eyes briefly. “I do not like that we have been separated.”

Legolas gave a very un-princely snort. “Ill-news indeed. I wished to tell him that my count is now thirty-nine.”

“Is that what you have been doing?” Holly leaned her head back against the wall. “I suppose it’s one way to pass the battle.”

They sat in silence for a long time before Holly broke it again. “Do elves sing laments as the  _ dunedain _ do?”

“I believe it was the  _ dunedain _ who learned the practice from my people.”

She found herself grinning. “That would make sense. I have sung too many for my brothers, but this is the first time I will be called upon to write a verse of my own.” Holly shook her head, thinking of the many funerals she had attended, both before her arrival in Aughaire, and after. “The last time I was close enough to be considered, I did not know what the custom of his people was.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Aragorn’s arrival in the courtyard, and Holly rose to follow as they made a slow circuit of the defenders, cheering and aiding them whenever possible. She was ready to yank him down onto the stones when he stood above the gates, despite the renewed assault and new ladders of foes attempting to breach the wall, but she gritted her teeth and listened to him bandy words with the orcs below, wondering if she would be sentenced to death for assault on her king if she shut him in a closet for the remainder of the battle.

An impending sense of danger crashed over her as Aragorn stepped back down, driven from his perch by a fresh hail of arrows, and she lunged for him and Legolas, shoving them down the stairs, as the ramparts where they were standing exploded in a burst of flame and stone fragments.

Screams filled the air behind her, but Holly was focused on the elf and the man picking themselves up from the courtyard. “To the tower!” Aragorn coughed, and they rushed across the courtyard to the tower door, only to pause as the wind seemed to change, bringing with it a hint of promise, and then they were nearly deafened by the sound of a great horn sounding from the tower above them.

The doors of the tower burst open, and the king and his riders burst forth in a blaze of sound and fury. Spotting Arod, and Hasufel, Holly reached for Hasufel’s bridle, holding him in place as Aragorn vaulted into the saddle, Legolas doing the same with Arod. She moved to let go, but Aragorn grasped her arm and hauled her up behind him.

“Together,” he called, as they joined the host of riders, and Legolas nodded as he drew Arod up beside him.

Dawn was rising in the eastern sky as they rode down the causeway bridge, and there were more horns blowing in the air than the orc horns Holly had learned to ignore during the night. “Those are no orc horns,” she gasped into Aragorn’s ear as she reached for the straps meant to secure weapons or baggage and bound her legs into place before reaching for her bow.

He nodded, and struck down a passing orc. Glancing over her shoulder, Holly saw men issuing from the caves behind them, the entire host of orcs driven back by the ferocity of the sally. Automatically, she put arrow to string, over and over again, thinning the retreating ranks until she reached for an arrow and found only an empty quiver. Slinging her bow over her body, she drew her staff instead, laying about the head of any foe in her reach as Hasufel kept pace with the king’s horse, the pair of them leading the charge of the Rohirrim towards the Dike.

When they reached the Dike, they drew up short, and Holly peered over Aragorn’s shoulder to see what had stopped their charge. To her surprise, where she remembered open fields, there was forest, with the host of the enemy trapped between the forest and the Dike, with only a narrow path to the west left uncovered by the newly arrived forest.

As she watched, a rider appeared at the top of the western ridge, brightly clad in snowy white, and Holly found herself laughing breathlessly. “Mithrandir!” she shouted, raising her staff. “Gandalf the White has returned as he promised!”

Other voices took up the cry, and even more cried out the name of the missing marshal who Holly thought had been lost when news came of the fallen garrison at the Ford of the Isen. She presumed that he was the man standing next to Gandalf on the ridge, with the black horn that called forth what seemed to be a thousand foot soldiers that rushed down the ridge, driving into the densely packed foe, forcing them backwards into the trees.

The King cried out, and Hasufel leapt forward, and the line of defenders that had halted at the Dike surged forward, joining the foot soldiers as they forced the foe into the shadows of the trees, or left them lying on the grass before the Dike.

* * *

It was somewhere between the Dike and the trees when King Theoden halted and Gandalf reached them, the tall man striding easily next to Shadowfax. Holly unbound her legs and rubbed at the aches where the straps had cut into them, and resolved that the next time she rode pillion into battle, she would take the time to modify the saddle straps for her comfort.

Other lords were gathering near them, and Legolas waited on Arod nearby, but a shout from behind them made her turn her head, and she felt giddy with relief as she spied Gimli, with Eomer and a number of the missing men behind them.

With a glance at Aragorn to give him the chance to refuse her, Holly slipped off Hasufel and moved to stand at Gimli’s side. As Eomer and the other men of rank clustered around the king, Holly carefully gestured at the bloodied bandage wrapped around the dwarf’s head. “If I might, master Dwarf, I would see that your wound troubles you no longer.”

“It is little trouble,” he said, breaking away from his conversation with Legolas, which seemed to be merely an accounting of what had passed since their separation, “but if it eases your mind, go ahead.”

“I would help those of my companions that I might,” she murmured bitterly, and gently rested the fingers of her right hand just below the bandage. “Boromir of Gondor has fallen, in defense of my lord, and he would not let me heal him.”

“Ill news!” Gimli said, and she moved her hand as he bowed his head. “He was a valiant man indeed.”

She returned her hand to its place just below the bandage and willed her magic to heal the scratch there, relieved to find no trace of poison or concussion. It was as she finished that Aragorn drew up beside them on Hasufel, and she turned to look at him.

“We ride for Isengard after we have had a rest,” he said offering her his arm. “For now, we return to the keep.”

“If my lord allows, I would see Boromir to the Halls of Mandos with song before we depart,” Holly allowed him to pull her up behind them, seeing two Rohirrim help Gimli up onto Arod behind Legolas.

“They will bury him with all honor,” Aragorn said as they started the trek back to the Hornburg, the king and his retinue doing much the same. “I had planned to see him laid to rest.”

When they reached the Hornburg, Aragorn and Legolas were shown to rooms where they could rest, and while Gimli took space in the room given to Legolas, who did not need the comfort of a bed for his rest, Holly wrapped herself in her cloak and the blanket from her bedroll and settled herself in front of the door of Aragorn’s chamber. Paranoid, perhaps, but she didn’t want the fuss of having to declare herself important enough to merit her own room.

A messenger came for them not long after noon had passed, and she intercepted him and took his message before sending him on his way and rapping on the door of Aragorn’s chamber. When he opened it, and saw her blanket pooled on the floor where she had been sleeping, Holly saw his mouth twist into a grimace.

“There was room enough for the both of us,” he said, gesturing at the room behind him. “If they were so short of chambers, I would not have minded.”

“My lord is kind,” she said, squashing down the butterflies that were rising in her stomach. “But I know who it is you are promised to, and it is not me.”

He did a double take, and the butterflies were drowned out by the flood of disappointment that washed over her at the realization that he did not seem to remember that she was a woman. She was glad of her cowl, still tugged up over her face; combined with the shadows of her hood it hid her shamefully burning cheeks from sight.

“My lord,” she hurried to say, proud that her voice held steady, “a messenger has come. They go to lay Boromir to his rest.”

Aragorn bowed his head deeply and shut the door. Rolling her bedroll quickly, she rapped on Legolas and Gimli’s shared door, and gave the message to the elf when he opened it. Once his door shut, she leaned against the wall, gathering her control for the ordeal ahead.

* * *

The Rohirrim had chosen to lay Boromir near the causeway, and Holly watched as gentle hands laid his body into the grave that had been dug, still shrouded in the cloth that had covered him when they had borne his body away. Aragorn cast the first handful of dirt, as was his right, and then Legolas, followed by Eomer, who had joined them as they left the Hornburg. Gimli cast his own handful of dirt, and then Holly stepped forward, tugging off her gloves as she did, and she let her hood and cowl fall.

She would face Boromir as herself, this last time.

The dirt was cold and damp in her hands, and like everything in the coombe, it smelled of death. Standing over the grave, she found herself furious as she faced the shrouded body within. 

_ Why did you stop me? _ She raged, fingers tightening around her handful of dirt.  _ You could be standing here among us now, instead of forcing us to bury you? _

Reluctantly, she prised her fingers open, watching the dirt as it spilled over Boromir’s still body. “You have reminded me of the bitterness of duty,” she murmured, bowing her head. “And the selflessness of heroes.” Unbidden, her mind showed her an image of Cedric, fallen on the grass, and she squeezed her eyes tight and turned away from the grave, tugging up her hood and pulling her gloves back on, heedless of the dirt still clinging to her hands. As she rejoined the paltry line of mourners, the gravediggers were already replacing the dirt.

After a long moment, Aragorn spoke: “They will look for him from the White Tower, but he will not return from mountain or from sea.”

Taking a deep breath, Holly closed her eyes and sang:

“ _ From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides, and past the roaring falls; _

_ And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls. _

_ 'What news from the North, O mighty wind, do you bring to me today? _

_ What news of Boromir the Bold? For he is long away.' _ ”

She paused for a moment, collecting herself. The repetitive sound of the diggers echoed in her bones, like a heartbeat.

“ _ 'Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought. _

_ His cloven horn, his broken sword, a mighty stand he wrought! _

_ From Rivendell, he journeyed south, and came out of the west; _

_ To seek once more, in fair Gondor, the home that he loved best.' _

_ 'O Boromir! From the high walls, northward I turned my gaze, _

_ To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, yet came you not that way.' _ ”

Legolas picked up the song from her as she trailed off, and she listened, her head bowed, staring unseeing at the trampled grass below her feet.

“ _ From the mouths of the Sea the South Wind flies, from the sandhills and the stones; _

_ The wailing of the gulls it bears, and at the gate it moans. _

_ 'What news from the South, O sighing wind, do you bring to me at eve? _

_ Where now is Boromir the Fair? He tarries and I grieve.' _

_ 'Ask not of me where he doth dwell-so many bones there lie _

_ On the white shores and the dark shores under the stormy sky; _

_ So many have passed down Anduin to find the flowing Sea. _

_ Yet the son of Denethor was not one of these!' _

_ 'O Boromir! Beyond the gate the seaward road runs south, _

_ But you came not to the wailing gulls and the grey sea's mouth.' _ ”

Aragorn let the last echoes of Legolas’s verse linger in the air for a long moment before he began, so much feeling in his voice that Holly felt as if she had an iota less control, she would be falling to pieces.

“ _ Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass grows _

_ The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it goes. _

_ 'What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring to me tonight? _

_ Have you seen Boromir the Tall by moon or by starlight?' _

_ 'I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide and grey; _

_ I saw him walk in empty lands, until he came again _

_ Under the shadow of Hornburg’s walls. I saw him rise no more. _

_ Thus fell valiant Boromir, for the heir of Isildur.' _

_ 'O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked afar, _

_ But you lie cold among the graves in Rohan far.' _ ”

As the song concluded, Holly turned away and headed for the causeway. A minute later, Legolas appeared at her elbow. “Where do you go?”

“To the wounded,” she muttered, avoiding a patch of dried black blood on the causeway. “To offer what help I can to the dying. Send a runner to fetch me when we ride.”

Pulling away from the elf, she flagged down the first Rohirrim who she saw crossing the inner courtyard of the Hornburg. “Take me to the healers?” she asked, ignoring Legolas, who she suspected was still hovering at her heels. “I want to help.”

* * *

She lost track of time as she sequestered herself among the dying, going from pallet to pallet as the healers busied themselves with those who had a chance to live. When she had been shown to them, the healers had looked at her skeptically when she said that she wanted to help with the hopeless cases.

It was not healing that she did, Holly knew it was forbidden to her. To heal even a broken finger would drain her more than she was willing to risk, given that they rode to Isengard that evening, and Saruman would likely be far fresher than either she or Gandalf could hope to be after such a night. Instead she sat with each man and offered them what she had offered Boromir: a painless and quick passage into the Hall of Mandos.

Some of them took it, and she held their hands as she gently slipped them into sleep with a whisper of magic, and the separation of soul and body took very little, given how close each of the Rohirrim were to death. After a time, she found herself in a twilight state, not the in-between where she had spoken with Dumbledore many years ago, but a half-step removed from reality, where she could see the souls of those around her as their bodies faded from sight, and she could see Namo as he walked in her wake, waiting for the next soul to guide them into his halls.

Many of those who she did not send to Namo were insensible with pain or fever, and she would not act without their consent, not even when it would be a mercy. She could not return what she took, not truly. There were stories of why necromancy, even though much of it was beneficial, was banned, and most of those tales revolved around attempts to raise the dead, which never ended well.

Holly herself could only think of Cadmus Peverell, who had restored his lady to the land of the living, only to follow her into death as he realized that the dead could not truly live again.

She had just seen another soul into Namo’s hands when she turned, and was blinded by the light of the soul standing in the doorway. Someone’s hands reached out to steady her as she faltered, caught in the in-between.

“Go outside,” Namo said quietly, resting a cool hand on her forehead, quelling the headache threatening to erupt. “Breathe the fresh air and bathe in the sunlight and let it chase away these shadows. And do not look again upon one of the  _ Quendi _ when you see souls.”

“What do you need?” a voice was asking as the hands steadied her. “Ranger, what do you need?”

“Take him out into the air,” another voice said, and Holly felt herself being hustled gently between the beds. “He has been with us for hours.”

The gentle breeze brushed against her cheekbones, and she tipped her face up to feel the sun warming it, feeling the shadows depart. Gently, the hands that had steadied her pushed her down, and she went willingly, perching on what she suspected was a barrel, based on the shape and curvature underneath her.

“Are you well, Thuri?” Legolas was asking from somewhere to her left. “They say you were there for hours.”

“I am well,” she said, still not quite ready to open her eyes. “Your arrival simply startled me.”

“He has been there with the dead and the dying since he arrived,” someone said in a hushed tone as they passed by.

“I was offering them the grace that I could offer to Boromir,” Holly admitted lowly, knowing Legolas would pick up her words where the Rohirrim would not. “Since I could not offer the alternative.”

There was a confused tone to Legolas’s voice, and she imagined that he had tilted his head slightly, as she had seen him do a thousand times when Gimli or the hobbits had said something that he clearly had no context to understand. “Have you seen many men die then?”

“Only those I could not save,” she said, knowing that the bitterness coloring her tone echoed a similar bitterness she had heard from a man she had been convinced hated her. “Did you come for me?” Her subject change was hardly subtle, but Holly didn’t feel like explaining more than that to him, or anyone really.

“We ride to Isengard as soon as we assemble,” the elf replied, seemingly willing to let her be. “Aragorn sent me to find you.”

“I’m ready to go,” Holly said, slowly opening her eyes after she tipped her face down to stare at the ground. Solid, dull grey stone greeted her, trodden over with the muck of battle in the common walkways. Carefully, she turned to look in the direction Legolas’s voice had come from, and was gratified to find that she could no longer see the brightness of the elf’s soul.

He nodded, and she rose and trailed off in his wake as he cut through the bustle of Rohirrim moving too and fro as they began the work of restoring the fortress to something more defensible than its current state. At the base of the causeway, the king was mounted, a number of riders milling around him. She spotted Gimli first, sitting astride Arod and looking marginally more comfortable than she had ever seen him on a horse before, speaking with Eomer next to him, and then she saw Aragorn, mounted astride Hasufel, looking out over the coombe, as if he didn’t hear a single bit of the bustle and the noise around him.

“The horses of the king’s household were not moved into the safety of the Hornburg until after the culvert was first breached,” Legolas said as they approached. “It appears that the  _ yrch _ that made it among the horses slew several of them, including the mount Boromir rode. Aragorn has said that you ought to ride with us, and that you are quite capable of doubling with someone.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Holly replied distractedly, searching the crowd of riders for a familiar face, her eyes falling on Eothain. “If you’ll excuse me?”

Eomer’s second had a bandage peeking out from under his sleeve, and a number of smaller cuts and abrasions, along with what she suspected were going to be spectacularly colorful bruises, but since he was mounted with the party that rode to Isengard, Holly knew he wasn’t injured badly.

“Hail Eothain,” she said, cutting through the crowd of riders until she reached him. “It is good to see you well after our long night.”

“Hail Thuri  _ Dunedan _ ,” he said, saluting her with his spear. “I could say the same of you. Are you to go to Isengard with us to confront Saruman?”

“If there is a rider that will bear me,” she said with a laugh. She could feel eyes on the back of her head, but she wanted some space from Aragorn and the others after the long night and the rush of emotions she had felt upon being confronted by Aragorn when she woke him that afternoon. “Apparently Boromir’s mount was lost before the horses were moved to safety, and my companions and I remain a mount short.”

“It was ill news, the death of one so stalwart,” Eothain said, leaning down to offer his arm. “You may ride with me once more, and we will go to confront the traitor. He has much to answer for.”

* * *

They rode through the night, and once more Holly was passed among the riders of the company, though only those of Eomer’s  _ eored _ who had joined them on this journey. Gimli rode with Legolas, and Holly did not feel ready to ride with Aragorn, so she stayed among the Rohirrim, speaking quietly with them from time to time but other times riding in silence, left to her thoughts, and her memories.

_ “We should really track down one of the Istari,” Halbarad said as he reviewed the rosters of the Rangers. Gilraen had taken to her bed lately, weary with age, and the lion’s share of her duties had fallen upon Halbarad’s shoulders as her successor as Steward in the North. “To see if there is some explanation, or training that you could partake in.” _

_ “I’ve told you a thousand times,” Holly said, grabbing the stack of inventories from the corner of his desk and filching a quill and pot of ink of her own. She technically shouldn’t be helping Halbarad with this, but Daervunn was off overseeing matters at Sarn Ford and Tharbad on Halbarad’s behalf, and the other Ranger captains were busy with other matters or not in Esteldin. Besides, she was reasonably certain Gilraen approved of how Halbarad managed to keep her from going out into the field before she was fully healed by dumping some of his excess paperwork in her lap. Given the number of times that the Dowager Chieftainess of the Dunedain had come looking for Halbarad only to find the both of them in his quarters doing paperwork, it was nearly impossible for her not to know. “I’m plenty useful here. See, I’m reviewing your inventories.” _

_ “You’ve reported it yourself, the Angarim Sorcerers are growing in numbers, and we have no methods of countering their black spells. How are we to hold them back if we cannot fight them?” _

_ “Wizards and Sorcerers die just as easily as men and women do when you stick a blade in them,” Holly snapped. “You do not need an answering power for that.” _

_ “Yet you are the only person who stands a chance at dispelling their foulness,” Halbarad countered steadily, unbothered by her irritation. “And you yourself have admitted that there’s only so much you’re able to do as you are.” _

_ “That has nothing to do with my education, and everything to do with my environment,” Holly scratched out a note about needing to replenish the stores of athelas given the increased number of fell wounds treated by the healers. “The magic here is not the magic of my homeland, and if it were, I could craft counters to their spells with much more finesse than my current method of forcing the matter. No amount of education could change that.” _

_ “You don’t know that,” he challenged, his tone setting her on the defensive automatically. She had never learned how to back down from a challenge or a fight. “Have you spoken with Gandalf? With Saruman? With Elrond or the White Lady of Lothlorien who have forgotten more than we might ever know?” _

_ “And if I do?” she retorted, scrawling further comments about the amount of linen for bandages with more force than was necessary. “And if I allow you to send me out in search of Gandalf, who wanders too and fro with little notice? How many years would you have me waste in search of him, when I could be saving lives here?” _

_ “The White Wizard, Saruman, lives in Orthanc, near the Gap of Rohan,” Halbarad’s patience was legendary among the Dunedain, but Holly could hear it wearing thin at her obstinance. “If you go to him, you will surely find him there.” _

_ “I will not go to Orthanc,” Holly set aside her inventories and glared at him until Halbarad turned to look her in the eye. “If you order me, I will forswear my oath to our chieftain. Do not ask me why or how I know, for I cannot tell you, but I will not go to Orthanc on your orders.” _

The memory left her as the horses slowed their pace, water splashing up against her skin as Eothain’s mount forded the river Isen. All around her, the Rohirrim were hushed as they rode through what had been the site of the greatest slaughter of the Rohirrim in living memory and the fall of their Prince. She fancied, though it could have been true if she was slipping into the twilight she had found herself in as she walked among the dying, that she could see the shades of Rohirrim watching their party as they crossed the ford, and she shivered.

_ In time, the water will cleanse this place _ , she told herself, remembering the lessons she learned at the knee of an Indian wise-woman as she travelled, searching for a solution to her immortality.  _ It will be made new and things will grow. _

After the ford, and the burial mound that had been raised for the fallen, they rode further on towards Orthanc, and when they stopped for a rest, Holly shivered as her boots touched the ground. There had been fell deeds and foul magic in the lands surrounding Isengard, and it threatened to creep into her heart and settle in her bones.

Focusing hard on her occlumency, she reached for her dampeners and bound them around her wrists, and then, just to be safe, she bound the one around her neck. Created for use in the cities beneath the shadow of Carn Dum in Angmar, they would allow her the time and space to filter the magic, to keep the foulness from overwhelming her. She had little cause to use them as such since she had gone south to Esteldin, mostly using them to keep friendly magic from going to her head, as she had in Rivendell and Lothlorien, but she was grateful that she had included the filtering aspects in the later iterations of the dampeners, even though there had been no need.

Eothain gave her the first watch, and she had just been relieved and laid down to get a little rest when her replacement cried out. Bolting upright, hands on her knives, Holly saw a great cloud of darkness go sliding down the sides of the river bank, going from Isengard as a mist rose about their now wakened camp. She heard Gandalf calling out for everyone to stand down, but she felt reluctant as she tucked her knives away. The very earth cried out and stirred under her feet, and she found herself driven to her knees, whispers filling her ears and coldness creeping into her bones, despite the dampeners, which seemed to burn against her skin.

She must have cried out, because there were hands holding her, and she fought against their restraint, unsure of everything except that the foulness of the darkness before her. Desperately, she fought to pull her senses back within her, as she had done when she encountered Gandalf in all of his power, fleeing from the darkness.

A sharp fragrance pervaded her nostrils, carrying with it the spearmint that was part of her favorite blend of tea, the bright scent of sunshine on cut grass, and the clean scent of the wind rushing in her face, softened by warm leather and old stone. Feeling the darkness receding, she opened her eyes, finding Aragorn and Gandalf kneeling in front of her, a pulp of crushed herbs in Aragorn’s hand which was near her face.

“ _ Athelas _ ,” she said, surprising herself with the hoarseness of her voice, though she did not remember screaming. “Was it truly that bad?”

“You collapsed, keening,” Gandalf said, rocking back on his heels and stroking his beard contemplatively. “I did not know that you would so strongly feel the darkness of Saruman’s foul deeds.”

Aragorn withdrew his hand, though she realized that someone, or someones, were still behind her, supporting her. “You have bled again,” he said, and she clumsily reached up to wipe the blood away, only to stop with her hand halfway to her face and reach for a handkerchief instead. She had packed several, to be used as bandages, but had not yet needed them. As she reached down to where her belt pouch should have been, she was surprised to find only empty space on her belt.

Hearing an awkward throat clearing, she looked up to see Aragorn offering her the missing pouch. “I had thought to look for your…” he gestured vaguely at her wrists and neck. “But I couldn’t find them, and then we saw that you were already wearing them.”

“I put them on when we stopped,” Holly explained, reaching inside the bag only to sigh as she realized the contents had been disordered. Not up to sorting it out right then, she thrust her hand into the jumble and groped for the familiar fabric of the handkerchiefs and extracted one. The blood had started to dry, but Aragorn passed her a waterskin and she wet the fabric enough to clean up her face. “I could feel the foulness ahead as soon as my feet hit the soil.”

Gandalf sighed heavily. “It was not so, once,” he murmured, looking off towards the river, which Holly realized was once more running with vigor if the sounds she heard were any indication. “Once these lands were fair, and filled with all manner of growing things.”

He would not speak more of it, instead rising and returning to pacing the borders of their camp. The Rohirrim that Holly could see looked unsettled; she doubted any would sleep this night.

Shifting slightly, Holly was reminded of her invisible supporters, and turned her head to see who had come to her aid. Unsurprisingly, it was Legolas there, with Gimli behind him, hovering with a look of concern on his face, though when he saw her looking, it was quickly schooled into gruff bluster. “Thank you,” she said, as Legolas slowly released her to sit on her own power. “I did not know that I would be so sensitive, even with the precautions I took.”

“You ought to eat a little, and sleep if you are able,” Aragorn said, wiping the pulpy handful of  _ athelas _ on the ground beside him, its refreshing fragrance spent. “We will keep watch.”

Tired, and unwilling to argue, Holly wrapped herself in her cloak and rested her head on her pack. Around her she could hear the soft murmurs of the Rohirrim, and the sound of creaking leather and the jangling of bits from the horses picketed nearby. The now-familiar sounds lulled her to sleep, and she let herself easily drop into the waiting darkness.

* * *

She woke at dawn, to the sounds of breaking camp. Legolas passed her a precious bit of  _ lembas _ , unspoiled and whole even after their days of rough travel, and she sipped from the waterskin Aragorn refused to take back. Gimli sat with her and chattered at her while she ate, and when she was finished, Aragorn and Legolas were approaching, Hasufel and Arod at their heels.

Legolas boosted Gimli up onto Arod, but when Holly turned to look for Eothain and her riding companions from the previous day, Aragorn raised his eyebrow.

Ceding defeat, Holly mounted up behind Aragorn before he could help her up. She may have had a bad spell during the night, but she was hardly helpless! He sighed and mounted up, and they joined the main company.

The road they had been riding along became a well paved highway, the gates of Isengard looming in the distance, growing larger. To Holly’s surprise, water and mist lay thick about the road, as if there had been a torrential downpour during the night. Yet Gandalf seemed unconcerned as he rode ahead, leaving the Rohirrim, Legolas, and Aragorn to follow behind like ducklings in his wake. But at last they reached the gates, and Holly looked up at them in awe.

She could see how they had been once an intimidating structure, doors of heavy iron hung so carefully that she suspected a child could open them with a touch, given that she had seen similar examples in the ruins of Annuminas. Yet now these great doors were warped and twisted on the ground before the great arched gate, surrounded by broken stone, as if someone had cast an overpowered  _ bombarda maxima _ at the area. The space beyond the great arch seemed to have been a tunnel through the solid stone of the surrounding mountains, but it lay open to the sky, the surrounding walls no longer solid and imposing, but riddled with gaps and rents, the remains of towers hovering in pale imitation of what they might have once been. 

Through the open gate, if she squinted, she could see muddied water, steaming and hissing as if it were one great cauldron, yet instead of ingredients, all manner of debris floated upon the surface. A smudged shadow through the mist, she could see the great pillar of Orthanc, seemingly undefiled, though all other structures and pillars that Holly could see were warped and cracked if they were standing at all.

Holly glanced about, seeing that the entire company had stopped to take in the sight. But movement caught her eye, and she caught her breath as a familiar figure sprang to his feet and bowed to the king, who had halted his horse behind Gandalf, only a length or two from where Aragorn and Legolas had stopped, with Eomer nearby.

“Welcome, my lords, to Isengard!” Meriadoc Brandybuck cried, and Holly began to breathe again. The hobbit looked hale and happy, and his companion, who Holly was glad to see had only been sleeping, looked much the same. They seemed to have taken no permanent harm from their adventure as orc captives, but she was distracted from her observations by the sound of Gimli taking their lost companions to task.

From her place behind him, Holly could feel Aragorn shaking with suppressed mirth, but he quieted as he listened to the rest of Merry’s conversation with Gandalf. When the company of Rohirrim moved off to follow Gandalf in search of this Treebeard the hobbits had spoken of, Aragorn held Hasufel back, and Legolas remained with them. Once the king and his retinue had gone, Aragorn slipped off the horse, and Holly hurried to follow, snatching the reins before Aragorn could protest.

She gave both horses a quick rub down, glancing at the Rohirric tack and deciding that she was not confident enough in her ability to tack up in a hurry if they needed to depart with any speed. So she replaced Hasufel’s tack, though left the girth a notch looser than she would have otherwise, and left them to roam in search of whatever grass they could find as she returned to her companions, who had set out food in the ruined guardhouse just inside the gates. 

As she ate the toast and bacon the hobbits set out for them, ignoring the wine and ale in favor of the clean water from her waterskin, Holly listened with awe to the hobbits’ recitation of events since they last parted, though their focus was mostly on Treebeard and the Ents. 

When the meal was over, they removed out into the clean air and sunshine, and Holly went to check on the horses before returning to the others. Under her boots, the ground no longer teemed with foul magic, and she breathed out a sigh of relief, resting her forehead briefly on Hasufel’s neck. Her dampeners would remain while she was in range of the wizard, and Holly had no qualms about pulling in her magic-sense if she came to the foot of Orthanc. Gandalf had warned her not to risk discovery by Saruman, and she would continue to heed that warning until the wizard was no longer a threat.

Turning back to the others, she spotted Aragorn perched on the rubble, and it sent a pang of disappointment through her. Seeing him like this, wrapped in a grey cloak much like those of his people in the north, stretched out with a pipe, he was very much like the  _ dunedain _ she had served with over the years.

_ If I had met him then, on the shores of Nenuial, or around the fires in Esteldin, I would have lost my heart to him _ , she thought bitterly.  _ Now I have enough warning to guard it well, though it will not be wholly painless _ .

At last the hobbits turned to the telling of their tale, and Holly realized that they did not know of Boromir’s survival. But she held her tongue through their recitation, and listened in wonder as the hobbits told of the might and power of the Ents. 

When they had finished, and Aragorn seemed to be musing over the mystery of Shire pipeweed in Isengard, Holly took up the thread of the conversation. During the telling, she had let her hood fall to her shoulders, and her cowl settle about her neck, and basked in the warm sun, and she wished now to cover her face and hide her emotions, but it would be too conspicuous.

“I have but one correction to make to your tale, Master Took,” she said quietly, and her companions stilled in their movements. “Boromir of Gondor did not fall near the lawn at Parth Galen, but was saved by the timely arrival of my lord and myself. He joined us as we ran through Rohan’s fields, and rode to the battle at the Hornburg with Theoden, King of Rohan. He fell there, protecting my lord Aragorn with his life, and we could not reach him in time. We laid him to rest in the shadow of the Deeping Wall a day ago.”

It was heartbreaking, watching the rise of hope in the two hobbits’ faces, only to see them crumple into grief as she finished imparting the news. While she had never grown close to the hobbit quartet, Boromir had taken these two in particular under his wing, training them in some of the basics of self defense. But they did not have long to grieve, for the king’s party were soon spotted, and Holly hurried to tighten girths and hand over the horses. She boosted Merry and Pippen up behind Aragorn and walked between the horses, her staff in her hand as she carefully tested the stone before her as they walked down the broken avenue to meet with the others.

As the others discussed who would seek out Saruman, Holly glanced up at Aragorn for permission, and then sought out Eothain, who grinned tiredly at her before lifting her up behind him. “Lost your spot?” he asked quietly, as the conversation went on between Gandalf, the hobbits, and Gimli.

“For the moment,” she shrugged, adjusting her seat. “Have you no desire to speak with the wizard?”

The gathered Rohirrim were silent behind their king, despite the argument between the wizard and the hobbits. It was surprising, given the amount of gossip that usually flew when a powerful figure such as Gandalf bandied words with such unassuming persons as Merry and Pippin. Yet at last they moved off, heading for the base of Orthanc, and Eothain responded thoughtfully: “A desire to speak with the wizard? No, I do not have it. For I fear I would speak very little, since my anger at his doings surpassed all else.”

They came to the foot of the stairs, and Aragorn dismounted, and then helped the hobbits down. Holly shrugged at Eothain and slipped off his mount, catching Hasufel’s reins and waiting for Aragorn’s return as Merry and Pippin settled on the lowest stair. Gandalf and Theoden joined Aragorn, and together the three of them climbed the stairs, Eomer trailing at their heels, ready to assist his king if needed. There was a rustle, and Legolas and Gimli dismounted, hurrying behind the quartet. As Arod bumped her elbow with his head, Holly hid a smile as she heard Gandalf’s sigh at the pronouncement of Gimli and Legolas joining the group.

For a little bit, they waited for the wizard to answer Gandalf’s summons, but when a voice came from the tower, Holly slammed her hands over her ears and focused on her occlumency shields until she felt she could remove her hands. There was magic in the voice, and it was sickly sweet and cloying, not the foulness of dark magic, but the stickiness of compulsion. If this was Saruman’s most basic power, she could understand why his treachery had gone unnoticed until it was too late.

She chanced a look upwards, towards where the voice had originated, and a flare of fury rose in her heart, burning away the last wisps of compulsion as they tried to take root in her. For a brief, terrible moment, she saw Albus Dumbledore upon the ledge of Orthanc, as she had seen him a number of times towards the end of the war, and that was enough to set her on her guard. Despite it being over sixty years since his death, she was still struggling to forgive him for orchestrating circumstances so that she would go to her death so willingly.

Holly glanced around as the wizard continued to speak, the compulsion falling upon deaf ears, and she scowled under the shadows of her hood and cowl. The Rohirrim were falling under the compulsion, but as she glanced up towards Gandalf, desperate to intervene, the wizard was still as the stone around them. Frustrated, she tightened her grip on Hasufel’s bridle until the horse tossed his head, and she reluctantly loosened her fingers, stroking his neck in apology.

When Gimli spoke, she breathed out a sigh of relief, seeing the compulsion begin to lift on the crowd of Rohirrim, but it was Eomer’s words that made the greatest strides, and she felt the Rohirrim begin to stir in anger as they remembered the dead on the grass before the Deeping Wall, the mound at the Ford. She raised her head to look at the wizard, and couldn’t help but grin viciously as she watched his facade begin to shatter as he turned to Theoden, who looked every year of his age as he stood on the steps of Isengard.

It was Theoden’s words that struck the final blow, and Saruman’s rage was clear to see as he raised his staff, as if to smite them from above like some terrible god, but his rein on his temper was stronger than she realized, and he pulled the instinct back, though it seemed costly.

He spoke then to Gandalf, and while Holly could feel the compulsion in his words, it was not directed at her, or the gathered Rohirrim. From the stillness of Gandalf, she suspected it was not taking root, and when he laughed, she knew for certain that the fallen wizard’s last stand would not find any victims among their company.

Saruman’s fury, and stubborn refusal to leave his sanctuary was both understandable and incomprehensible, but it brought to mind Lucius Malfoy’s oily ability to claw his status back, despite the absolute disgrace of the final days of the war. Left unchecked, Saruman would haunt the works they set out to do, attempting to restore his power and influence upon their backs, out of spite if nothing else. Orthanc was the seat of his power and influence, and he would not give that up lightly.

There was a tremendous crack as the wizard’s staff splintered on Gandalf’s command, and Holly watched in reluctant sympathy as Saruman crawled hastily back into the shelter of his tower. She had lost her wand twice, and it had been like the loss of a limb each time. You never fully recovered from it.

A commotion at the stairs dragged her eyes back up from the ground, just in time to see a great dark orb, shining with some hidden fire, roll down the steps, with Pippin rising and chasing after it as it headed for one of the remaining pools. Suspicion lay heavy on her heart as the hobbit picked it up, clearly not expecting the weight of it.

In one of her many stays with the healers at the encampment upon Tinnudir, she had heard of the  _ palantiri _ that had been brought over the sea by Elendil and his sons, how the seven seeing stones had been placed at key points in the kingdoms to enable swift communication across long distances.

_ Elostirion, Annuminas, Amon Sul, _ she counted in her head as the wizard wrapped the orb in his cloak before descending the stairs, scolding the hobbit gently.  _ Osgiliath, Minas Anor, Minas Ithil, and Orthanc _ .

Calenglad had told her that the Annuminas and Amon Sul stones had been removed to Fornost, and lost with the last king in the icy waters of Fornost. They had been standing in the ruined halls of Barad Tironn, before the platform where the Annuminas stone had once been kept. The Elostirion stone remained safe in its tower, according to Gildor Inglorion and his band, who traveled often to seek it out, at least according to the latest report the company had made when they stopped by on their way to Esteldin and Lin Giliath a year or so before Holly had left her farm on the outskirts of Bree.

Halbarad had said that the Osgiliath stone, chief of them all, had been lost in much the same manner as the two lost northern stones, in the river as the city itself was sacked. Given that Minas Ithil had fallen to the enemy, it was expected that the stone was either lost, or held by the enemy, making the remaining stones in Minas Tirith and Orthanc dangerous to use. It was no wonder that Gandalf was wary of this one, if it was indeed a  _ palantir _ that had been cast at them from one of the upper windows of Orthanc.

* * *

From the cluster of Rohirrim, she watched as the hobbits said their farewells to the Ents, and Gandalf introduced the other members of the Fellowship. He had given her a sideways glance when she hung behind, still holding Hasufel’s reins while Arod hovered patiently at her elbow, but said nothing. Holly was glad of it; there was something brewing in the near future that near had her itching with irritation as she tried to puzzle it out. The most she was able to discern was that it revolved around the  _ palantir _ , but she couldn’t be more specific than that. It remained wrapped in Gandalf’s cloak, but she suspected it may not stay that way.

When the sextet returned, Holly boosted Merry up behind Gandalf at the wizard’s request, helped Aragorn get Pippin settled behind him on Hasufel, and then went to seek out Eothain. Two of the riders rode out as scouts, and the main company made their way out of Isengard, the Ents standing in silent salute as they went.

They rode on, and Eothain told her quietly that the two riders were not scouts, but messengers, sent to alert those who remained at Helm’s Deep that the King would return, and lead all those who were able to Dunharrow.

“We will muster there,” Eothain told her as the night crept upon them. “Theoden King has said that beyond that company, there should be no more than two to three riders moving at a time. Gandalf has warned that the attention of the Enemy will be turning to our lands, after what has been done of late.”

It was late, a few hours before midnight by Holly’s estimate, when they halted, tucking themselves into a gentle dale at the foot of a bare hill. Holly snatched up the reins as Aragorn dismounted, moving Hasufel off towards where the Rohirrim were picketing their horses, Arod once more following her elbow. Whether he had taught himself to do so, or Legolas had asked it of him, she knew not, but it was her pleasure to care for the two horses.

When they were both settled and picketed out, Holly reported to Eothain, who told her she could take last watch, and then settled herself in her cloak, leaning against the side of the hill. Quietly, she chewed on a fragment of lembas, not wanting to intrude as the Rohirrim made a quick supper over the small fire that had been kindled. Her senses still buzzed with news of some new portent, but she was no closer to sussing it out than she had been before they left Isengard.

Eventually, the camp settled into quiet, and she tried to close her eyes and rest, even if sleep itself eluded her. For some time, she heard the rustle of bracken and whispers as the hobbits settled in for sleep, but eventually it ceased, and she felt herself drifting off.

A piercing cry shattered her dreams, and she was on her feet in an instant. Her magic pulsed in her ears, and she could feel magic in the air, as if someone had been working it. To her relief, it wasn’t the heavy foulness of black magic, but the indifferent feel of unaligned magic, though as she spotted Gandalf hovering over Pippin, a cloaked bundle resting nearby, she caught her breath.

Suspecting that the wizard had things well in hand, she paced the perimeter of the dale, murmuring under her breath. On the third pass, she scattered some of her herbs and salt, trying to cloak the feel of magic in the dale, if not cleanse it entirely. If she had guessed correctly, the hobbit had looked into the  _ palantir _ , and it was likely that the Enemy himself had looked back.

It took another four passes before she felt the magic leeching away, breaking down and settling into the earth. Nobody who wasn’t magically sensitive would notice it, and any sensitive servants of the enemy wouldn’t be able to tell what type of magic was done here, only that magic  _ had _ been done at some point since the beginning of the Second Age.

She returned to the group as Gandalf handed over the wrapped  _ palantir _ to Aragorn, and Holly felt a sense of rightness as the stone’s magic settled in the hands of Isildur’s heir.

A sense of foreboding replaced it though, and she instinctively threw her arms up as she fell to her knees, calling upon the magic she had just given to the earth, and to the patterns she had paced around the dale. There were startled cries, but she stared up into the night sky, seeing the stars obscured by a great dark shape. Her magic shielded the camp, she knew, her magic and the remnants of the  _ palantir’s _ usage that she had returned to the earth. It held just long enough for the shape to disappear, moving quickly northwards as she felt the magic shatter and start to seek out her own, but she released it, pressing her hands to her knees and panting for breath after the sudden exertion.

Holly heard Gandalf’s call to ride, and she pushed herself to her feet, heading for the horses. Arod was at her side instantly, and Hasufel was waiting patiently by where she had piled his tack. There was not a twitch or idle stomp as she threw his saddle over his back, tightening the girth as gently as she could in her haste, and Hasufel did not fight as she lifted the bridle up, taking it without a single shred of resistance.

The rest of the Rohirrim were doing much the same, and by the time she had Hasufel ready, the company was mounting up, Theoden King apparently unwilling to rest longer. Aragorn mounted up, the cloak-wrapped  _ palantir _ bound securely behind his saddle, and Holly boosted up Merry to sit before him. Legolas and Gimli were already astride, and she ran for Eothain, who lifted her up behind him.

“With speed we must go,” Eomer said, coming up beside them. “Might I offer to bear you for a time?” he asked, turning to her, to Holly’s great surprise.

She accepted his arm, and passed easily onto his greathorse. They rode out in a thunder of hooves, long legs crossing the distance easily. The tail of Eomer’s helm whipped her in the face once, bringing tears to her eyes at the sting, but she lowered her head, letting the coarse horsehair fall on her hood instead of her skin.

They rode through the Ford with a great splashing of water and were a ways distant when one of Eomer’s  _ eored _ rode alongside them. “My lord,” he said, drawing up by Theoden, who was a length ahead of Eomer, “there are horsemen behind us. As we crossed the fords I thought that I heard them. Now we are sure. They are overtaking us, riding hard.”

Aragorn rode up and dismounted, lifting Merry down next to him to stand at the king’s stirrup, Anduril drawn. Around her, the Rohirrim turned, their spears pointing towards the unknown threat. “Do you wish to greet them with me?” Eomer asked as he urged his mount to follow the man of his  _ eored _ who had brought the news. “Or do you wish to remain with your companions?”

“I will-” she began, only to find her words changing in her mouth, “come with you.” Her foresight was spurring her onwards, and she had a feeling that the inbound riders meant them no harm. Eomer shrugged, and followed the rider towards the rear of the column.

Peering into the darkness, she couldn’t make out much, but as the sound of hooves grew louder, she began to pick out slivers of moonlight glinting off spears. Soon enough, they were near fifty paces distant, and Eomer cried out: “Halt! Halt! Who rides in Rohan?”

The riders stopped, and Holly heard a familiar voice call out: “Rohan? Rohan did you say? That is a glad word. We seek a secret in that land in haste from long afar.”

Before Eomer could reply, Holly slid to the ground and called out. “And you have found that secret! Come forth, Halbarad  _ Dunadan _ and speak with me.”

A rider broke from the cluster of shadows, and she grinned as she recognized the familiar form and the horse the man led. “Thuri,” Halbarad said as he stopped a spear’s length from where she stood in front of Eomer, hood and cowl down to reveal his face. “The word from Imladris had you in the company of one most dear to us.”

“I ride with my lord Aragorn, son of Arathorn, who rides with Theoden King of Rohan,” she declared, pushing back her hood and pulling down her cowl, showing him that she was who she claimed to be. “This is Eomer, son of Eomund, nephew and heir to Theoden King.”

“Well met, Eomer, son of Eomund,” Halbarad said, bowing slightly as Aragorn hurried through the crowd of riders to meet his kinsman. Holly turned to Eomer as the men embraced.

“These are my lord’s kinsmen,” she said quietly, standing at his knee. “They mean Rohan and its people no harm, though I know not why they have left their lands to the north. Matters of grave importance must drive them.”

“Grave importance indeed,” Halbarad said, joining them, Aragorn at his side. “We number only thirty, my lord,” he said to Aragorn, “and the sons of Elrond chose to ride forth with us when the summons came. It was the greatest number we could summon in haste, and I fear that we could not have spared more.”

“But I did not summon you,” said Aragorn, “save only in wish. My thoughts have often turned to you, and seldom more than tonight; yet I have sent no word. But come! All such matters must wait. You find us riding in haste and danger. Ride with us now, if the king will give his leave.”

Halbarad followed Aragorn as he sought out Theoden, but Holly glanced back towards the waiting  _ dunedain _ and drifted over towards them.

As she suspected, Daervunn was holding the reins of Halbarad’s mount at the head of the group. “Hail and well met!” she said quietly, reaching up to stroke the neck of Halbarad’s horse. “I am very glad to see you, and those you have brought with you.”

“Well met by moonlight Thuri!” Daervunn laughed. “We decided that you could not be the only one who got to travel with our Lord to the fields of great deeds. Tell me, what has happened that brings such a small company and the king this far from Edoras?”

“War and treachery,” she said, glancing north towards the mountains which sheltered Isengard. “Saurman the White is no longer the White Wizard, for he threw in his lot with the Enemy. He sent armies against the Rohirrim, and Prince Theodred fell defending the Fords. It was only through the efforts of the Ents and their herds that we prevailed when his armies came to the Hornburg two days ago.”

“The  _ Ents _ ?” Daervunn muttered, setting of a ripple of murmurs as his words carried. “I had thought they had passed into myth.”

“They have been stirred into action, much to our gratitude,” Holly said, watching as familiar figures separated themselves from the crowd. “ _ Mae govannen _ , Elladan, Elrohir.”

“ _ Mae govannen _ Thuri,” Elladan said, his brother bowing his head politely. “Did you say that the Ents have woken from their long slumbers?”

“I believe Prince Legolas intends to visit the forest of Fangorn, when peace rests upon these lands,” Holly glanced over her shoulder to see Aragorn and Halbarad returning. “Ride with us to Helm’s Deep, and I will tell you about it.”

“Anyone feel like carrying me pillion?” she asked, glancing between them, but Halbarad laughed.

“Have you not told her of your surprise?” Halbarad asked, reaching for his horse and swinging up easily. “After you brought it such a long way?”

Snickers rose up from the assembled riders, and the riders shifted, allowing a single horse to come to the front, yet the saddle was empty, beyond a slight bundle.

She recognized the horse. “You brought Nor all this way?” Holly asked, taking his reins and smiling as he nudged her with his nose until she stroked his neck.

“We had no choice,” Daervunn muttered, glancing at the bundle perched on her saddle. She was confused for a moment before the bundle shifted, and a familiar pair of ears peeked out from what she now realized was a cut down version of the ones the  _ dunedain _ were wearing.

“You brought Kreacher?” she asked, coming around to the side and staring up at her house elf. “Why in the-”

“Kreacher made them,” the elf said, a stubborn set to his jaw. “Mistress  _ needs _ Kreacher.”

“Lindir was tearing his hair out trying to keep him busy,” Elrohir muttered as his brother smothered a laugh. “Imladris has never been as clean as it was when we left.”

“The Rohirrim are impatient to go,” Aragorn said, glancing over his shoulder at the waiting riders. “Mount up, Thuri, and let us be off. We have many leagues to go before we are safe behind the walls of the Hornburg.”

He headed back to the cluster of Rohirrim, heedless of the rustle of the  _ dunedain _ as another riderless horse was led forward.

“There’s a hobbit riding pillion with him at the moment,” Holly said, mounting up behind Kreacher after she checked Nor’s girth. “Best to leave him as he is for the moment.”

Once she was settled in her saddle, they set off again, falling in behind the Rohirrim. Aragorn and Merry dropped back to ride with Halbarad and the sons of Elrond, but Holly found herself encircled by the rest of the  _ dunedain _ .

“They dragged you away from the lady of the lake?” she teased Calenglad as she spotted him among the riders.

“With many protests,” someone said with a laugh, and she twisted around to see Culang behind her.

“Is that Bronach?” a rider said, drawing up beside her, and Holly turned to see a face she had given up on long ago.

“Corunir,” she breathed, and then glanced at the riders around him. “Word came to Imladris that you had sent word to Esteldin, but I dared not believe it.”

“If you did not bury us, we may yet live,” the man said, reaching over to rest a hand briefly on her shoulder. “Golodir and Braigiar ride with us.”

“Tell me of your time beyond the Ram Duath,” Holly urged, eager to hear what had happened to the missing company. “What have you been doing all these years?”

“There will be time enough for that,” Calenglad said, butting in. “Tell us of your doings since you went south with Aragorn. What has happened in Rohan?”

“Our company passed through Eregion as we left Imladris,” she began, noticing how all heads were turning in her direction. “We sought out the pass over Caradhras, but our way was blocked. Since we dared not chance the Gap of Rohan, we risked the deep darkness of Moria.”

Muted hisses filled the air, and the horses shied slightly at the sound. When they settled, she continued. “Gandalf faced Durin’s Bane near the Eastern Gate, and fell into shadow with it, yet we learned later that he struck down the Balrog that drove Durin’s folk from Khazad-Dum, though it was at great cost.”

“Glorfindel will be interested in hearing that,” Elrohir said, dropping back slightly for a moment. “He and my father had often debated the nature of Durin’s Bane.” Urging his mount onwards, he rejoined his brother, who rode to Aragorn’s right, while Halbarad was riding on his left.

“From the Dimrill Dale, we came unto the Golden Wood, and were sheltered under its boughs.” Holly sighed, remembering the tranquility of Lothlorien, the timeless quality of the days. “By the grace of the lord and lady we were sent down the Anduin to the Argonath, and passed onto Nen Hithoel to Parth Galen. From there, our company was beset by the minions of Saruman, and our hobbit companions carried off. We pursued them, and came to the eaves of Fangorn, and found Gandalf there. The hobbits having come into the care of the Ent Treebeard, we turned from the forest towards Edoras, and entered into the hall of Meduseld. With Theoden King and the Rohirrim, we rode to Helm’s Deep, and fought a desperate battle through the night. It was there that Boromir of Gondor fell, along with many good men.”

She swallowed hard, and turned to Daervunn. “Tell me, what news of the north?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lament sung for Boromir was adapted from the version in Fellowship of the Ring. My favorite version to listen to is by Clamavi de Profundis, and you can find it on YouTube at the very least, if not in a few other places. They've been setting any number of Tolkien songs to music and they're stellar!
> 
> On to the fun/new/exciting whatnot.
> 
> This upcoming week (13 July - 18 July), I'll be posting 500-1000 words snippets of upcoming projects each day over on my tumblr (rhosinthorn.tumblr.com). If you want to help me decide what's going to be posted next, go take a look and let me know either in the comments here, likes, reblogs, replies, etc. Here's what I've got roughly sketched out:
> 
> Monday: The Pivot Point, sequel to Steady is the Hand, eventual Glorfindel/Holly  
> Tuesday: The Veil, lengthy one-shot HP/Hobbit Crossover, no pairings  
> Wednesday: untitled sequel to Steady is the Hand, established Aragorn/Arwen/Holly  
> Thursday: Harry and the Three Trolls (title subject to change), HP/Hobbit, pairings undecided (and unlikely?)  
> Friday: The Quintwizard Tournament, sequel to Steady is the Hand, eventual Elladan/Holly/Elrohir?  
> Saturday: wild card day, I'll grab something from my WIPs. Whatever it is will most likely not be eligible for posting after Steady is the Hand.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ""The days are short. If thou art in haste, remember the Paths of the Dead."

**Chapter Fifteen:**

Listening to the movements of war in the North was a soothing balm against the wounds of the loss of Boromir, who had not been a friend when they set out, but who she had come to regard as one by his death. Holly listened as Daervunn described the infighting between the Lieutenants of Angmar, and Laerdan’s unfortunate fate.

“His daughter, Narmeleth, petitions Lord Elrond to let her seek out and destroy Mordirith, using the knowledge she gained as Amarthiel. As we left, he sat in council with a number of others to decide her fate.” Daervunn explained, as Golodir grumbled in the background. After learning of his imprisonment, Holly could understand why he felt ill-disposed towards the restored elf maiden, but she could see the tactical value of using Amarthiel’s knowledge to their advantage, if the restoration of Narmeleth could be trusted.

“Of all the times to ride south,” she lamented, and the assembled  _ dunedain _ laughed with her. “Yet, if we did not, would there be a northern kingdom to return to?”

“Have a hope Thuri!” Halbarad chided, reining back to fall in with them. Aragorn seemed to hover on the edges for a moment, before riding ahead to speak with Theoden and Eomer. “I hear you have been quite busy yourself.”

“Just a little trek,” she said, waving off his implied question with an ease that made the  _ dunedain _ laugh. “But I can tell  _ you _ that I finally went to Imladris to see a wizard.”

Daervunn snorted, and she wished it was daylight because she was sure Halbarad was rolling his eyes as he said: “Yes, I’ve heard about that too. Though did you have to tell him about your oaths, because I got a right telling off about that.”

“He can be as unhappy about it as he likes,” Holly said with an airiness she didn’t quite feel. “So long as he’s alive to be crowned at the end of things, that’s all that matters.” A thought occurred to her, and she scowled. “By the way, were you ever planning on telling me that I was riding out to our chieftain?”

“I honestly did not know how to tell you,” Halbarad said after a long moment of silence. “You stormed into Esteldin, barking about how ‘Strider’ wouldn’t accept your passcodes, and I realized that the two of you had never actually met. The last time he’d been in Imladris, you were in Tinnudir, and it always seemed to happen like that. Besides, sending you in pursuit of him brought you to Imladris, and from the sound of it, you’ve done well for yourself.”

“Done well for myself?” she murmured, eyes nearly crossing as she stared at Nor’s neck before her. “I have done very little of renown, besides ridden with the Fellowship. In fact, I do not think my presence here has made a whit of difference, compared to what any of you might have managed.”

“From what our chieftain tells me, your presence allowed Boromir of Gondor to survive the ambush at Parth Galen,” Halbarad’s voice was gentle, and Holly hated him for that gentleness. It reminded her too much of past arguments about loss and death.

“Boromir of Gondor lies in the shadow of the Deeping Wall because I was not fast enough to save him,” Holly managed to get out between her gritted teeth. “Nor was I strong enough to heal him.” 

No longer wishing to talk, she urged Nor on, leaving the comforting familiarity of the  _ dunedain _ for Eomer’s quiet silence. Thankfully, he did not ask anything of her, and she rode in silence until they came once more unto the Hornburg.

* * *

Holly joined the  _ dunedain _ in the room given to them, on a pallet between Daervunn and Saeradan, and slept deeply for the first time in what felt like forever. When she woke, Kreacher had set out clean clothes for her, a duplicate set of the grey raiment that the others wore, and she dressed in them gladly before going out to the hall and joining her brethren in the midday meal.

She saw Merry sitting at the king’s side, and Legolas and Gimli together at the king’s table, but Holly was comfortable sitting among the  _ dunedain _ and the sons of Elrond, though she realized a familiar face was missing.

As she slipped food to Kreacher, who had chosen to shelter under her cloak rather than go through the tedious explanations that his presence would provoke, Holly leaned over to ask Daervunn: “Where are they?”

He looked at her, face a picture of confusion, but murmured: “Our chieftain has secluded himself in the highest chamber, with Halbarad.”

Holly felt a wave of foreboding crash over her and the hall in front of her was replaced by a wash of white, then a jumble of images and sounds. She was in a dark place, with lights surrounding her, then she was riding with an army by the sounds of spears and jangling tack surrounding her. There was a battle and she was in the middle, and someone was screaming. Loss ripped at her soul, stealing her breath in a way nothing but new grief had ever managed. Arwen was dying, Arwen was holding a child. A black gate was crumbling, a dark tower was rising. A fertile land stretched out before her, fields were burning. A white throne, a black throne, fire and ash choked her. A spring breeze caressed her face playfully as her hands were filled with rich soil.

As if over a great distance, she heard Irmo’s voice calling out to her. “Harry Potter, heed my brother’s words!”

She looked then upon a white tree that was simultaneously blossoming and burning as Irmo’s voice mingled with Námo’s.

“ _ The moment comes, Secret, what do you say, _

_ Ride with the army in light of day? _

_ Your King takes the path appointed for him, _

_ Under the mountains through halls dark and grim. _

_ In halls dark and grim, lest ye walk forth with me, _

_ Bind tight your gifts ‘til you come to the Sea! _ ”

Her vision cleared as quickly as it had been overtaken by the vision, and her throat felt raw as if she’d been screaming. Hands were gently helping her up, drawing her hood over her face as she wobbled her way blindly towards the door, leaning heavily on the arm offered to her.

Out in the sunlight, leaning against the stone, Holly managed to look up and realize that the sons of Elrond had helped her out, Elladan stooping worriedly to peer into her face. “Are you well Thuri? What have you seen?”

“How did you know that I had Seen?” Holly asked, leaning against the stone and swallowing until the roughness in her throat went away. “Did I speak?” She had thought the words of the Valar were for her alone.

The brothers exchanged glances before looking down shaking their heads. “We have seen our  _ adar _ , and  _ naneth nanethenin _ in the past, and saw the signs in you.” Elrohir said with a shrug. “You did not prophesy, though Daervunn and Kreacher know that something has transpired.”

“Where is Kreacher?” She had forgotten about the house elf in the aftermath of her vision, and looked around for him, but Elladan pressed her gently down onto a barrel.

“Daervunn has him, do not fret,” the elf soothed, brushing his fingers across her forehead, as if checking for a fever. “If it is not too personal, what did you see?”

“Much,” she admitted, thinking of the images she’d seen, “and yet very little. But what I understand is that there are two paths before me, though I know not what they are.”

Slowly, she related the confusing array of images, trying to relate the visions of their sister’s death as gently as possible, putting them in a semblance of order as she related them, trying to place each path side by side. When she finished with the message from Námo, the brothers traded a glance.

“To See is rare, even for one gifted as  _ adar _ and  _ naneth nanethenin _ are, and often comes at moments of great significance,” Elladan said, looking thoughtful. “We suspect our father had seen before the Grey Company rode forth, given that we were bid to carry a message to Estel.  _ The days are short. If thou art in haste, remember the Paths of the Dead _ . I suspect those are your ‘halls dark and grim’ in my lord Námo’s message to you.”

“Estel must have made his decision, or nearly,” Elrohir remarked, sitting on a crate next to Holly and stretching his long legs out with a sigh. “I do not believe that one path necessarily leads to the doom of Arda, but that which you saw is reflective of all we stand to lose. But you yourself have a choice to make, given your unique circumstances.”

“Boromir spoke briefly to me of the Men of the Mountains, the oathbreakers, when Gandalf conveyed the words of Lady Galadriel to him,” Holly thought for a moment before carefully reciting the words the wizard had shared.

“ _ Where now are the Dúnedain, Elessar, Elessar? _

_ Why do thy kinsfolk wander afar? _

_ Near is the hour when the Lost should come forth, _

_ And the Grey Company ride from the North. _

_ But dark is the path appointed for thee: _

_ The Dead watch the road that leads to the Sea. _ ”

The twins shared another glance, and Holly wondered if they weren’t like Fred and George, who seemed capable of having an entire conversation in the silence of a single glance.

“Aragorn will take the Paths of the Dead, and the Grey Company will ride with him,” Elladan said decisively. “But should you walk that same path with him, or should you ride with the Rohirrim when Theoden’s army rides for Gondor?”

“Why would I not follow my lord?” she protested, scowling at them. “I have sworn myself to him, much as his kinsmen have, and I will not be forsworn!” 

“Thuri, my lord Námo would not send a message so clearly outlining two options if he did not foresee the need of them,” Elladan counseled, resting his hand on her shoulder. “If Aragorn is to risk the haste afforded by the Paths of the Dead, I suspect he will attempt to hold the Men of the Mountains to their oaths.”

Holly felt her blood run cold. Slowly, quietly, mindful of the Rohirrim that moved through the inner bailey of the Hornburg, she told the twins of her experience in the healing halls of the Rohirrim and the twilight state she had slipped into as she gently ushered the dying into Mandos, ending with: “Those that knew the legends, before I came to Arda, they called me the  _ Master of Death _ . If I follow my lord, will I put his attempt to call forth the Men of the Mountains in jeopardy?”

“Your vision gave you two alternatives, if you walked the Paths of the Dead,” Elrohir pointed out, bumping his shoulder against hers comfortingly. “You could bind your gifts close, if such a thing is possible, or you could enter that twilight state once more, if that is what my lord meant by ‘ _ walk forth with me _ ’.”

“Or you could ride with the Rohirrim,” his brother said, squeezing her shoulder and gesturing to the preparations around them. “There is no shame in doing so, and Estel would understand.”

“I cannot risk Kreacher by binding myself closely,” Holly murmured, feeling the bond between them strengthen after being stretched thin by distance. “He would survive, but would inevitably suffer from my having to cut myself off from our already limited connection to magic.”

She did not voice her fear of going too deep into the twilight between life and death and what that might mean for her and Kreacher. Part of her thought she would ride with the Rohirrim and take the safer road, but in her gut, Holly knew that she would follow Aragorn wherever he went, risking everything to not only fulfill her oaths to him, but to see him seated upon the throne in Gondor.

“I will need your assistance,” she said, looking down at her hands. “For I will not ride with Theoden King while my lord walks the Paths of the Dead.”

* * *

The sons of Elrond managed to let word pass amongst the Grey Company without alerting the Rohirrim, and none of the  _ dunedain _ were surprised when Aragorn appeared and announced that they would not be travelling with the army. Daervunn had been told of her vision, but none of the others, though Holly suspected Halbarad knew after she saw him speaking with Daervunn as she sat with the others and listened to the tale of Aragorn’s recent struggle with the  _ palentir _ as related by Halbarad as they waited with the horses on the grass outside the Hornburg.

At last, Aragorn emerged, Gimli and Legolas with him, and they mounted up in a rustle of leather and a jingle of metal. Halbarad blew a great blast on the horn he carried, and Holly urged Nor on. As was his right, Aragorn led the company, with Elladan and Elrohir on his left and Halbarad to his right, and behind them were Daervunn, Calenglad, Legolas and Gimli, and, to Holly’s surprise, she herself was offered a place near the head of the column with them.

Kreacher’s thin arms were wrapped around her waist, the straps of Nor’s saddle carefully adjusted to hold him in place should she have to dismount and leave him. She had taken him aside and spoken of their path, and what it meant for them, and the house elf had glared at her for suggesting he stay behind and ride with the Rohirrim, or ride with one of the other  _ dunedain _ . He told her, a deep scowl on his face and spindly arms crossed over his chest, that he was staying with his mistress even if he had to run alongside the horses. Laughing, she took him to Nor’s side and started figuring out an arrangement for the straps that would hold him securely in place if things got rough. They had travelled together before, yet she’d been careful not to carry Kreacher into battle where he could not defend himself amongst beings two to three times his size. He was certainly capable of wielding a knife or a sling, and she suspected he had a dagger tucked under his cut down tunic, which was almost certainly belted by his sling, but during a pitched battle, particularly one on horseback, he was vulnerable without his magic to assist him.

They rode hard, pausing briefly at Edoras, abandoned as it was, and pressing on to Dunharrow, where they found the Lady Eowyn and her people amongst the beginning of the muster. She bid Aragorn to dine with her, and Holly found herself making camp with the other members of the Grey Company, less the sons of Elrond, Legolas, and Gimli, who had also accepted Eowyn’s invitation to supper.

Sitting around their fire, the tent she would share with Kreacher, Calenglad, Halbarad, and Daervunn at her back, Holly focused on the flames and fiddled with her dampeners, checking to make sure they were secure around her wrists and neck. Ever since they had begun the winding path up to Dunharrow, she had started to feel the presence of the dead in a way she had never felt before. The only thing she could think to compare it to was Nearly Headless Nick’s Deathday party during her second year, crossed with finding herself beset by Dementors. There was a chill to the air that made everyone, man and beast, uneasy, and she felt it tugging at her, settling in her bones like cold, clammy hands resting against bare skin.

The feeling persisted through the night, disturbing her rest. Trying not to wake the others, she rose and walked through the silent camp, startled to find that she was not the only one awake at such odd hours.

“My lady?” Eowyn startled as she turned towards Holly, and it was easy to see the tracks of tears on her cheeks in the flickering torchlight. They were on the outskirts of camp, near the road leading into the mountains, yet inside the sentry’s perimeter. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to intrude.”

“You ride with them then,” the other woman said bitterly, passing her hand roughly across her cheek as if it would erase the signs of her tears. “Into the mountains, never to be seen again. How is it that  _ you _ might go, and I might not?”

Surprised by the bitterness in Eowyn’s voice, Holly took a moment to wrap her head around what the woman  _ hadn’t _ said. “Lady Eowyn, before you were born, I swore fealty to my lord Aragorn, and I follow him willingly, not just as my oath compels me. It has very little to do with my gender and everything to do with the fact that my duty lies with my king, as does yours. Your people are sending their king and his heir off to a war they may not return from, and in their absence, they will look to you for direction.”

“You say nothing others have not already said,” Eowyn stared out into the darkness, her face set as stone.

“It is no shame to guard your people, no slight upon your character to not ride with the army. While the ride of the Rohirrim in Gondor might one day become legend, it does not negate the valour of those who kept Rohan for the army to return to. The wealth of any kingdom is its people, and to safeguard them is no less noble a task.”

“I am of the House of Eorl, I fear neither pain nor death!” Eowyn declared, turning on Holly, eyes flashing, face truly alive for the first time in Holly’s memory of the reserved woman. “And yet it is constantly asked of me that I remain behind, until all chance and hope of renown and great deeds is past.”

“There are no  _ great deeds _ in battle, my lady!” Holly snapped, for a moment seeing familiar faces in Eowyn’s, seeing bodies on the floor of the Great Hall. “There is survival! And death! And Valar help me, but there is no amount of skill that can keep you from death. Think of your uncle, and your brother, and their grief should you fall on the field, far from home. Think of your people, who might be beset by other threats, and who might fall without your guidance.”

“He doesn’t love you,” Eowyn spat, and her face immediately changed as the words lingered between them, regret suffusing every line. “I, I am sorry. I do not know what came over me.”

“I hurt you, and you sought to hurt me in return,” Holly said, closing her eyes. She felt as if she had known that she cared more for Aragorn than she should, but had refused to name it until Eowyn had. It was true, and so were the other woman’s words. “But it is true. He does not love me. His love waits anxiously in the West for word of our success in throwing down the Enemy. Should we succeed, they will marry, and the bards will sing of their love, for it is a love out of tales indeed. And you and I will watch, and linger, and learn to accept it or let it drive us mad. Even were he not king, were he just a man, my lord would love the Evening Star, and she loves him in return.”

A flicker of a vision crossed her closed eyes. Startled, she opened them, and for a moment, Eowyn was clad in armor, a bloody sword gripped in her hand and fire in her eyes. Holly sighed as a certainty swept over her, and looked up at Eowyn once more. “I tell you this, Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan, you will come to the field of battle that awaits us all. But do not throw your life away carelessly! There is one who waits for you, though he does not know it yet. Live for him, if you cannot live for yourself.”

Reaching into her belt pouch, she rummaged around until she found what she was looking for, an old piece of Black family jewelry that Kreacher told her had been torn from Andromeda’s neck when she fled. She had carried it closer than most of the other heirloom pieces because it had been good for setting magic into, but it reminded her of Andy and Teddy. Now though, she felt it was time for it to pass to a new owner.

Carefully, she wove the magic into the setting, anchoring it into the flawless blue topaz, making sure it would do exactly what she wanted it to do, but no more. “I can offer you no more words, but instead give you this. It will not let you pass unseen, nor will you be unnoticed, but it will dissuade others from asking questions about your presence when it is worn. Know this though- should you be injured, it will cease to work, and I would have to restore the magic to it for it to function again.” 

As she handed the pendent over to Eowyn, pressing it into her hand, Holly hoped she had not doomed the other woman. While her vision had shown Eowyn on a battlefield, and then with a tall man who had a resemblance to Boromir, Holly knew more than most that the future was hardly certain, and even less certain to happen the way she interpreted it. But as she walked away, back to the tent she shared with Halbarad, Daervunn, and Calenglad, Holly hoped it was enough to keep the other woman from doing something beyond stupid.

* * *

They rode out as dawn crept over the horizon, and Eowyn met them, clad as the Riders were, much as Holly had seen in her vision. She offered a cup to Aragorn in farewell, and he took it. From her place in the second row of riders, Holly heard her ask something quietly of him, and heard the quiet rumble of Aragorn’s voice in response. Eowyn turned away, and Aragorn sprang up into the saddle and started the company off. She wondered what expression he bore, because from the look on Eowyn’s face, the woman had pleaded to ride with them once more and had been denied. 

Holly wished she could say something to make the situation more bearable for the woman, but she had spent too many sleepless nights trying to imagine what she could have said to Colin, to Remus and Tonks, to any of the students that had been laid out on the floor of the Great Hall, if it had been possible to lay them out at all.

_ For one who wishes to go to war, there is nothing that will stop them _ , she thought as she rode towards a line of stones before them, Kreacher a solid comfort behind her. The chill in her bones was getting worse, and she tightened her grip upon the reins. Elladan and Elrohir had dropped back to ride on either side of her, watchful without being overbearing, and she appreciated their care. Passing under the trees made it worse, far more so than the oppressive watchfulness of Fangorn.

She started to see figures moving between the trees, lights where there ought to be none. Holly thought on Námo’s warning and wondered if it was madness that would set upon her, or if her presence would interfere with Aragorn’s mission, or what the exact nature of the danger that caused him to caution her against walking this path without taking precautions.

At last they drew near a great stone, like a warning, and even Aragorn’s horse balked at going forward. Holly dismounted with the others, and as she soothed Nor’s nervous sidestepping and checked that Kreacher was secure, she carefully undid her dampeners. She hadn’t been wearing them when she had visited the dying at the Hornburg, though she’d worn them on approach to and as they were leaving Orthanc, but she’d placed them when she heard about what awaited them in Dunharrow.

Now though, knowing she needed to walk forth, fully cloaked in her role as the holder of the Hallows, Holly tucked her dampeners into her belt pouch, closed her eyes, and simply  _ breathed _ . Reaching deep into herself, she allowed herself to fall into the same, vague twilight, the inbetween space, though this time, Námo was absent. When she opened her eyes, refusing to look to either side where the sons of Elrond stood, Holly found her surroundings dulled, the vibrant light of the souls of the  _ dunedain _ , her  _ brothers _ , the only light she could see.

Stepping forward, she led Nor around the forbidding stone, joining the others on the far side and found her attention captured by a door in the dark cliff face. It practically glowed in her sight, strange symbols hewn into the stone, and a pair of phantasmic guards stood on either side, still and silent, even to her eyes. Around her, she could see the souls of her brothers, the souls of their horses...all of them quailed in the face of the eerie aura being given off by the doorway and its guards.

“ _ This is an evil door _ ,” she heard Halbarad say, as if from far away, but he was only a few paces from her, talking with Aragorn, “ _ and my death lies beyond it. I will dare to pass it nonetheless; but no horse will enter _ .”

She wanted to call out to him, to try and ask what he had seen, but she found herself unable to speak, at least not to the living. The guards at the door finally moved, and she could hear them laughing at her.

“The Northman is right,” one said, and she saw him smile. “He will find his death soon. There is an air about him that reeks of it.”

“You will not claim him,” she hissed, tightening her hand on the reins in her grasp. “You will not claim  _ any _ of my brothers.”

“ _ We _ will not have to,” his companion said with a gravelly bark of laughter. “These are our paths and our mountain, and we will keep them.”

“ _ You will not claim him _ ,” she hissed, but they only laughed more, and Aragorn started moving, torch held aloft, though she could not see it but for his raised arm. As she crossed the threshold, the guards shifted uneasily, and she heard murmurs of ‘ _ witch _ ’, but they let her pass. There was a strong aversion ward, set by habit not intention she thought, on the lintel above her, but it could not touch her in that state, though Nor shuffled uneasily as she led him through.

In the mountain, she suspected that all was dark around her companions, but to her, the interior blazed with light. Doors lined the road they took, houses and shops she suspected, and the Dead gathered in and around them to watch the Grey Company pass. She heard their whispers, felt their anger, and though she did not chance a glance behind, knowing Elladan was at the rear with another torch, though Elrohir was just behind her, should she falter, and not wishing to risk being blinded by the light of the souls of the firstborn.

They pressed on, past doorways and side streets, the host of the dead following them as they went, until it seemed as if a mighty host pursued them. At last, they came out into what Holly knew must have once been a great plaza, and she could still see the shopkeepers and their stalls, peering curiously, then with anger, at the Grey Company as they stopped at Aragorn’s cue.

He knelt, she could see that much, but her vision was preoccupied by the tall Rohirrim standing next to her king, a ghostly figure, still clad in shining mail and gems to her sight.

“Go back!” he cried to Aragorn, gesturing towards the road they had come from. “Leave this accursed place if the Dead will let you!”

“We cannot go back,” Holly said, and his head snapped over to look at her within the crowd. “We must go forth.”

“Who are you that speaks with the Dead?” the Rohirrim asked, hand tightening on his ghostly sword.

“I am Thuri who walks with the  _ dunedain _ ,” she said, watching the other ghosts in hearing distance startle and whisper to their fellows. “I follow my lord as he seeks to defeat the Enemy.”

“Your lord has led you to your death,” the man said mournfully. “The dead do not trouble the living to pass, as I found.”

“You are a man of Rohan,” Holly said, knowing that Aragorn and some of the others were speaking, but their words were indistinct to her ears, filled with the whispers of the dead. “Why do you linger on these shores instead of passing to the halls of Mandos as you ought to?”

The ghost’s face tightened in fury. “I was denied it by my death in these accursed halls! Isildur’s wrath lies upon me as well! In life I was a prince of Rohan, was it not enough to forbid me burial beside my father?”

Suddenly, Aragorn’s voice rang out loudly and clearly through the plaza. “Keep your hoards and your secrets hidden in the Accursed Years! Speed only we ask. Let us pass, and then come! I summon you to the Stone of Erech!”

Whispers broke out among the gathered crowds. “Who is this man to give us orders?” one ghostly figure cried, his sword in his hand as he raised it above his head. “We do not suffer the living to pass!”

“He is Aragorn Elessar, heir of both Anarion and Isildur!” Holly shouted back as Nor shifted uneasily underneath her. “He goes to save his people from the very same Enemy you swore yourselves to aid his forefathers in defeating! Now is the time, Men of the Mountains, in which you might fulfill your oaths! For if he succeeds, he will release you to death’s peace, but if he should fail for lack of your aid, there will be none that come after who can release you!”

“Who are you to speak for the living to the dead?” someone cried out from the crowd, and others took up the cry.

“I am Harry and Bronach,Thuri and Holly!” she proclaimed. “I am the Master of Death as named by my people, a witch, a message rider, and sworn to my lord and my king! I can neither compel you nor can I free you, only you may do the former, and my lord might do the latter, should you fight for him now in these dark hours! Men of the Mountains, will you leave your halls and fulfill the oaths you have sworn?”

There was a great ripple in the crowds as they parted to let a man come forward, one who Holly suspected was their chieftain or king, if the finery of his robes was any indication. “The Men of the Mountains will come unto Erech,” he said as the crowds fell silent. “We will hear the words of this Aragorn Elessar, and allow he and his to pass this once. Go now, and ride to Erech before the ending of the day!”

A great gust of wind swept through the halls, and Holly suspected the torches were doused. But the Grey Company moved forward once more, pressing through the halls as the host of the dead marched behind them, their banners raising. Men, women, there was no distinction within the ranks, and Holly even saw a few children, likely those who had died before reaching adulthood. All bore weapons that could, though she suspected the fear they inspired was enough of a weapon.

Coming out into open air shocked her, as the sound of running water filled her ears, for a moment drowning out the sound of the army marching behind the company, and she blindly mounted up, patting Nor’s neck absently and checking to make sure Kreacher was still secure on the saddle. The house elf was trembling, but he squeezed her hand in return, seeming to understand that she could not hear him if he spoke.

Like bats from hell, the Grey Company rode down the mountains into a vale, and once they had descended into the vale proper, Aragorn must have given orders for speed, for Nor lept forward under her and Holly urged him on, using the light of the souls before her to gauge if she was lagging or riding too close. As if from a great distance, she heard bells ringing, but she rode forth, knowing the army of the Dead was behind them, and would do little good should they fail to reach Erech by midnight.

When Nor was beginning to stumble from weariness, Holly saw the Stone in the distance, a great thing, swathed in what she could only suspect was the magic of the broken oath. The magic pulsed an angry red, tendrils of magic wrapping around the stone’s surface and vanishing into the earth. She had seen several spell anchors over the years, both in her independent studies and as an Auror, but this was the clearest she’d ever been able to visualize the magic.

A great horn sounded, and as she watched, the Men of the Mountains lifted horns to their lips and returned the blast. Aragorn’s voice sounded: “Oathbreakers, why have ye come?”

The king stepped forward, clad now for war, a strong spear in his hand. “To fulfill our oath and have peace.”

Aragorn’s voice called out again, and Holly could see the outline of his soul before the Stone of Erech, the angry red ebb of the magic easing slightly as he spoke: “The hour is come at last. Now I go to Pelargir upon Anduin, and ye shall come after me. And when this land is clean of the servants of Sauron, I will hold this oath fulfilled, and ye shall have peace and depart for ever. For I am Elessar, Isildur’s heir of Gondor.”

There was a sound of fabric unfurling, and then Holly beheld the banner that she had noticed Halbarad bearing, and saw upon it a white tree, capped by seven stars, and a crown.  _ The Livery of Elendil _ , she thought, recognizing it from sketches and other recovered materials from the ruins of Arnor. “See the banner which has not flown in nearly a thousand years or more! See you the Blade that Was Broken, forged anew! Men of the Mountains, do you have any doubt that this man is Isildur’s heir?”

Slowly, ponderously, the king turned to her. “We will come.”

Movement in the crowd caught her eye, and she saw the prince of Rohan stepping forth. “Master of Death, will fulfillment of their oath free me?”

“I can make no promises, but it ought to,” she answered honestly. “But should you not wish to follow the Heir of Isildur’s will over the will of Rohan, I tell you this: Theoden King will ride from Dunharrow to the aid of Gondor. But for my king being needed at Pelargir, he would have ridden with the host of the Rohirrim.”

Face brightening, the prince of Rohan bowed politely to her. “That is fair news indeed!” he cried. “I will joyfully ride with this host, knowing that my kinsmen ride to the same end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> adar: (S) father  
> naneth nanethenin: (S) the closest translation I could get to grandmother
> 
> We've got several direct quotes from Tolkien here, and in case anyone's wondering, our dead Rohirrim is Prince Baldor of Rohan, who was lost to the Paths of the Dead in TA 3569.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then, without another word, she dug her fingers deep into the soil of the Pelennor, reaching for the magic within her and the magic of the land, long forgotten and dormant, never to wake again as it had once been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, but there were a few things about this chapter that I wasn't ready to let go out into the world last week. Most notably the (probably very bad) single sentence in Sindarin that I pulled together.

**Chapter Sixteen:**

They rested there for the night, but Holly got no sleep. The movements of the Dead around her kept her awake, and she dared not risk falling out of her twilight state. Instead, she wrapped herself in her cloak and leaned against the Erech stone, breathing steadily, the light of the assembled souls still visible through her closed eyelids. She could feel the magic in the stone ebbing and flowing, like a thousand heartbeats, which, she realized, it probably was. 

When Aragorn roused them, she reached for Kreacher, who had lain down next to her, and the house elf handed her a vial. Uncorking it, she drank it, tasting the familiar bitterness of the invigoration potion on her tongue and squeezing his shoulder in thanks. The prince of Rohan stood nearby as she blindly buckled Kreacher into the carefully rigged harness on Nor’s saddle, thankfully not commenting as the house elf had to guide her hands to the buckles. At least she was capable of saddling Nor in any condition she could still move in, even if it took a little longer.

At Aragorn’s cry, they rode forth, a great swelling of a ghostly army surrounding the small company from the north. Vaguely, Holly wished that the fog in her eyes would recede, so that she could see some of the country through which they rode, but she clung to the twilight, afraid of what might happen if she misstepped now, having come so far already.

Four days in total they rode, if their stops for rest were any indication, the prince of Rohan a steady presence at her side. The ghosts of the Men of the Mountains were hardly talkative, now that the chance of a reprieve was within sight, but the prince was amiable enough, talking quietly to her of the building of Meduseld and the history of Rohan as the others slept and Holly rested. Sometimes he would sing low, soft songs to her in Rohirric, and she found herself humming them under her breath as they rode. By the third night, she had several of them memorized, and sang along with the prince.

Nor gently slowing to a halt stirred her from her twilight slightly, and she looked out from under her hood to see the _dunedain_ gathering, and the king of the Men of the Mountains joining them.

“We have nearly reached Pelargir, Gondor’s stronghold at the sea,” the prince of Rohan informed her as he trotted up to join her, heedless of the horses shying slightly as he passed. “I believe this is where we are to meet the enemy.”

Holly nodded, straining to listen to the sounds of her brethren speaking. Halbarad had not had a chance to confide in her Aragorn’s purpose in riding for Pelargir, and she had not been able to hear if it had not been spoken of since she descended into the twilight. Now she walked among the dead, wondering what she should do, what she _could_ do during this battle.

“The Numenoreans seek to prevent an attack by river!” the king of the Men of the Mountains roared to his ghostly army after a brief consultation with Aragorn and Halbarad. Holly had to look away from the grouping as Elladan, Elrohir, and Legolas joined them, the brightness of their souls hurting her eyes. She had drawn Nor back to the rear of the company, the lost Rohirric prince by her side, but now it seemed as if the orders had been given, if this ghostly king was shouting them across the field. “This Aragorn Elessar seeks to destroy the southern corsairs at the port, and asks our assistance in payment of our oath! Harm only the corsairs, leave the riders, the elves, and the dwarf unharmed, and this debt will be settled.”

“And what of the witch?” someone called out, and Holly saw a ripple of movement as heads turned to look at her. “What of her?”

“Am I not a rider?” Holly challenged, before the king could answer. “I may not be of Numenorean blood, but I am sworn to my king, just as you are. Harm me and you will not like the consequences. There is another, who rides behind me. Touch a single hair on his head and I will make you _suffer_.”

“What will you do my lady?” the prince asked as the rest of the dead army moved away, shifting to array themselves like a massive pincer, if Holly was interpreting their movements correctly. She had soaked up military strategy in those first sleepless years after the Battle of Hogwarts, wondering if she had been a better leader, could she have directed the battle in a way that saved more people? “Will you fight with us, or with your people?”

“I do not know,” she admitted quietly, resting her hand on Nor’s neck, half surprised that it did not pass through. She felt thin and stretched, as if she was starting to fade herself, until she would be as transparent as those that she walked among. “My view of the living is dim, I see very little beyond your spirits and my brothers’ souls. It may not be enough to successfully acquit myself in battle, and I cannot make myself heard to them to ask for their guidance.”

“If you would permit me, my lady, I could be your eyes, since I see the living and the dead well enough,” the prince offered courteously, but she could see how the offer pained him. “I see that you are a bowman, and there is a place on these hills that could surely suit you.”

“No, my friend,” she said, shaking her head with a smile that he couldn’t see, hidden under her cowl as it was. “I could not ask that of you. Go now, and muster with the army. You have been a great companion to me these last few days, and I hope, for your sake, that our acquaintance ends with this battle and you go to the halls to be reunited with your father.”

He saluted and hurried off, joining the infantry, though she thought she caught him casting longing glances at the mounted _dunedain_. She couldn’t help but chuckle a bit, knowing that the attraction was the horses, not the people, but for her, she wished desperately that she could talk to the people.

Making a decision, she moved Nor and herself off to the hilltop perch where a gathering of ghostly archers had arrayed themselves. Absently, she wound a notice-me-not around Nor and herself, unsure of how visible they were to whomever was below.

“What’s the strategy?” she asked the man who seemed to be in charge of the assortment of archers on the hill.

“The ships are coming through the narrows,” someone else said after the leader of the group ignored her. “We send in several volleys, and then your king and his merry band make an appearance. Spearmen are massing to block both forward and backward progress, and they’ll spread out and circle the far side to keep anyone from slipping out the back.”

“And the swordsmen and riders will make a big show of it on this shore,” Holly finished, as the leader glared at the speaker. She could work with this, at least until the _dunedain_ rode out. There would only be enemies in her range, so there was no danger of her harming one of her brothers.

Settled, she glanced out at the ships making their way up the river towards the harbor, crammed with souls. They would be in range soon.

She had never prayed before, not to the pantheons or Judeo-Christian God of her birth dimension, and not to the Valar or Eru Illuvatar of this one. Yet as she drew back her bowstring, sighting a soul high in the rigging, Holly couldn’t help but break that streak.

_Orome and Namo, guide my shots this day so that only servants of the Enemy fall to them._

* * *

Elladan had been unhappy to leave Thuri’s side, but he knew that it was necessary, if Estel was going to succeed in this battle. The Men of the Mountains would certainly be helpful in the assault on the ships, but it would take strength and cunning to coordinate their movements.

Yet he feared for the woman, her eyes unseeing ever since they had passed into the Paths of the Dead. She rode among them as well as she ever had, but her feet seemed sure in the darkness, and she seemed to react to things not seen by mortal eyes. Not a crumb of food had passed her lips, though Kreacher was keeping her well supplied in potions each dawn. The house elf was worried for her, getting no true sense of his mistress from what answers Elrohir had managed to coax from him.

“And what of Thuri?” he asked Estel quietly as the Grey Company arrayed themselves around their king. “What of her role in this assault?”

“Where is she?” Estel asked, glancing around in surprise. “She is not with us?”

“Thuri has walked the Paths of the Dead with the Men of the Mountains,” Elrohir said as he guided his horse into place. “In the very hour in which you decided on our course, my lord of Mandos came to her through his brother’s arts and warned her that caution was needed should she follow you. She has thrown herself into twilight, and walks with the Dead.”

A rustle of movement swept through the _dunedain_ as his brother’s words were carried to those that could not hear them. Estel looked taken aback. “What is this? How was I not told?”

“We knew that she had a vision, and that it concerned precautions she would take if she rode with us,” Halbarad said, his voice steady. “There was much more on your mind; we did not wish to add to it. Thuri knew the risks of any path she trod, and chose the one she thought best suited for her.”

“She does not see, does not respond to the living,” Elladan put in as Estel opened his mouth, likely to chide his kinsman for keeping such a thing from him, no matter that Halbarad and Daervunn, as well as Elrohir and himself, had done the right thing. They had managed Thuri well enough, and the Men of the Mountains would fight for Gondor. It was the best outcome that could be expected. “But for Kreacher, not a single drop would have crossed her lips since we set out. I fear for her in battle.”

“Where did she go?” Daervunn asked, looking around. “I see neither her nor Kreacher, and Nor is missing too.”

Elladan looked for them as well, but he could not find a single glimpse of them. Then, suddenly, out of the fog that he knew was the dead, a single arrow flew, striking a man on the mast of the middle ship in the fleet passing by the river on its way to the docks of Pelargir. As the body fell into the water below, more arrows came, first seeming as if afterimages, but solidifying as they came closer and closer to the fleet, striking corsairs on the decks and in the rigging. Shouts rang out from the ships at this unexpected attack and a veritable rain of arrows plunged down, ripping through sails, but Elrohir pointed at the lone horseman on the hill to their right. “There, it’s Thuri!”

Indeed it was, and as he watched, she bent her bow for another shot, her arrow joining a flood of others in a maneuver he recognized. “They’re firing in ranks,” he said to Estel, gesturing at the hills. “And the ships have likely just encountered more of the dead.”

As they turned back to the river, the lead ship had ground to a halt against an invisible blockade, and mist swirled about its keel, a sure sign that the Dead were at work. More fog pressed forth from the banks as the remaining ships slid to a halt as well, and Elladan leaned over to say: “Estel, if we are to ride forth, this is your moment.”

His foster brother nodded, and lifted Anduril, a blazing brand in the mist, before riding forward. Halbarad went with him, Arwen’s standard unfurled and flapping in the wind, and there was nothing to do but ride forth with them, sword in hand. Of the many battles Elladan had no doubt were occuring at the moment, the outcome of this one would shape the days to come, if not centuries.

Briefly, his eyes strayed to the woman on the hill, cloaked in grey and shrouded by mist, and spared a brief prayer to the lord of Mandos that she would survive the path she had chosen to walk.

* * *

Hours later, on board the ships they’d liberated from the corsairs, Aragorn sat in front of the brazier, unable to sleep like most of the rest of his kindred. Halbarad and Daervunn sat on the opposite side of the brazier, the sons of Elrond having made themselves scarce, looking after the wounded and soothing the horses. Next to Halbarad, a cloak wrapped body lay, barely moving.

“She’ll be fine,” Halbarad said, and Aragorn dragged his eyes away, meeting his kinsman’s glance. “Thuri’s been through worse than some simple exhaustion.”

It had scared all of them that knew her, which was the entirety of the Grey Company Aragorn had come to find out, when her horse appeared out of the dissipating fog left after Aragorn had released the Men of the Mountains from their oaths. She had been slumped over the horse’s neck, and Halbarad and the sons of Elrond rushing to her side, conferring with her faithful servant who was uncovered when they shifted her cloak.

A brief examination pronounced her merely exhausted by her ordeal, and Elladan, the better healer of his foster brothers, told Halbarad that she would rest until it was time for her to wake again. Her servant seemed relieved by this, and watched over his mistress, and the horses, while Aragorn and the Grey Company dealt with the ships they’d captured.

The _dunedain_ would move to other ships at dawn, when they stopped at one of the hamlets along the river, but for this night, they’d all bedded down on the lead ship, unwilling to separate after so long together on their long journey south. He understood, especially when he remembered the chill and frightful presence of the Men of the Mountains, disturbing sleep and what dreams they managed.

“Where did she come from?” Aragorn asked, pulling his thoughts away from the fight behind them, and the one that he hoped would still await them when they arrived at the Pelennor. “How did she find Esteldin?”

Both men exchanged glances, and Aragorn found his curiosity piqued. He had given so little thought to Thuri, and how she had come to swear herself to him, occupied by the Ring and its bearer as he had been, and then with the captured hobbits. They had tumbled from emergency to emergency and now was the first chance he had to breathe, since battle was two dawns distant and the oar slaves who the corsairs had abandoned had the ships well in hand, willing to crew the ship in exchange for their freedom, many of them being men and women of Gondor who had been captured in the increasing raids along the coast.

“We brought Thuri to Esteldin,” Halbarad said slowly. “She is of the Trév Gállorg, of Aughaire. They adopted her, after she wandered out of the Ram Dúath.”

Aragorn’s confusion must have shown, because Daervunn explained a bit further. “One of our scouts outside the Ram Dúath was approached by a hillman, asking if we would take one of theirs who had been friend to Golodir and his company who now was in danger from the Angmarim. They said that their tribesman was badly injured by the Angmarim and was hidden in Aughaire, but they could not hide them forever. When the report came in, your lady mother decided to risk bringing a stranger into camp, and sent a small patrol to the meeting spot the hillman had requested.”

“I met them when they returned, on your mother’s orders, to evaluate our rescued hillman, and it was to my surprise when the healer told me that it was a woman they had retrieved, injured so severely that the healers did not think she would survive. Yet she did, and when she woke, we learned of Golodir’s company’s loss, though we suspected they’d been lost when communication failed.”

“It was thanks to Thuri that we could notify the families of those who had died,” Halbarad continued, looking miles away. “She knew every man the Trév Gállorg had buried after Golodir and his company challenged the Watching Stones, and she was invited to sit with us as we sang their laments by the fire. Each man who had family in Esteldin came to her that night, to ask after their loved ones, and she turned none of them away, having some word for each of them. Watching her, I knew that she had known grief, because though her own loss weighed heavily on her shoulders, she comforted all who came to her.”

“Her loss?”

Daervunn took up the story with a glance at Halbarad, who shrugged minutely and leaned forward to toss another billet of driftwood on the brazier. “You can see it, when she doesn’t think anyone’s looking. Thuri’s known a lot of loss, and to know so much about Golodir’s company means that she must have been close with them as well. Hal’s had several shouting matches with her about accepting it gracefully, given we live high risk lives.”

To Aragorn’s surprise, Halbarad kicked Daervunn’s boot with a scowl. “Those were private arguments.”

The other man raised his eyebrows. “They stopped being private when anyone within fifty feet could hear you. And at least one of those was held in the infirmary after she’d been carried in half dead from whatever scrape she threw herself into that time.”

Despite Halbarad’s grimace, Daervunn continued: “Besides, to those of us with eyes, it was easy to see why you never gave her a command of her own even after she’d earned it.”

“She wasn’t ever given a squad?” The news startled him. There was such a shortage of competent leaders and so many hotspots that anyone who showed the slightest amount of ability to keep others alive ended up leading at least a four man squad, and then found themselves promoted if they proved to be decent leaders.”

Halbarad shook his head, and when he spoke, he glanced over at Thuri’s sleeping form with a fond smile. “She’s capable enough, and probably would make a good leader. But she hasn’t accepted that she can’t save everyone, and takes the blame for every death she thinks she could have prevented. And to top it off, she’ll throw herself onto an enemy blade if it will save someone else. You should have seen it, given what we heard of how Boromir of Gondor died.”

Aragorn felt as if he’d just been chastised for an incorrect answer by his tutors in Rivendell. “I...I did not notice. There was much going on that day.”

Daervunn knocked his shoulder into Halbarad’s. “She also is a master at hiding her emotions when she wants to. Given the battle, she likely set the matter aside until everything was over.”

“So, she came from the hillmen of Aughaire after she had drawn the ire of the Angmarim?” Aragorn said, changing the subject. “Did she ever say what she had done?”

“I thought Thuri was the one to brief the Council and Lord Elrond about matters in the north?” Daervunn asked, trading glances with Halbarad. “All of our information about matters in Angmar came from her, after Golodir’s disappearance.”

“She mentioned Donnvail, that there had been an attempt to stir up rebellion there.” Thinking back to the afternoon in Elrond’s study, Aragorn realized that Thuri had been light on actual details of what had happened. “Was she involved?”

Halbarad laughed shortly, but there was no mirth in it. Gently, absently, he rested his hand on the sleeping woman’s shoulder, as if to reassure himself that she was still there. “Aragorn, she _was_ the rebellion. Oh, she managed to recruit a few others and start smuggling weapons into the city, but they were betrayed, and she made sure that she was the only one caught. They beat her half to death for it, especially after they found out she was a woman disguised as a man. After they dumped her outside the gates as a message, the hillmen of Aughaire rescued her and ferried her safely to us. We had to keep moving her every time the Angmarim started to notice her presence in one of our camps, otherwise they would have realized that she keeps thwarting death.”

* * *

Halbarad sat up as the night watch, the brazier in front of him the only light beyond that provided by the stars above, and by this time of night, it had faded into dimly glowing embers. Beside him, Thuri slept on, oblivious to the world.

He wondered when she had lost consciousness. Her arrow had been the first to strike the corsairs, he knew, and before their charge, he had seen several more fly from her bow. Her quiver was full, but he knew that Kreacher had been hard at work fletching during the long winter months, so the house elf might have already restocked it, preparing his mistress for the battle to come.

Two days from now they would land on the Pelennor, and Halbarad hoped for his kinsman’s sake, that Minas Tirith still held against the Enemy. From what he had gleaned of Aragorn’s words as he bent the _palantir_ to his will, a great host was arrayed to move on the White City, and Osgiliath had already fallen, Gondor unable to muster enough of an army to take it back and hold it. The former slaves were rowing their ships as quickly as they could up the Anduin, but there was a limit to human endurance, and the _dunedain_ as a whole were loath to press them to that limit, even with such dire haste as they desperately needed. They would stop several times during the next day, entreating the riverside villages and towns to join them in their fight.

Aragorn chafed at the delay, but had been a campaigner long enough to know that it was no use arriving at the field of battle without an army, so he would raise what numbers he could and hope that the delay was not beyond Minas Tirith’s ability to hold against the Enemy.

Next to him, Thuri stirred, and Halbarad rested his hand on her shoulder. The sons of Elrond had said she was likely to sleep until just before they arrived at the Pelennor Fields, that it was merely exhaustion that made her sleep so deeply. At his touch, she stilled again, her breathing evening out into a steady rhythm once more.

The first time he had seen her, she’d been unconscious too.

_“What news of our rescued hillman?” Halbarad asked the healer as they dismounted, motioning for one of the boys training with the hostlers to take over so that the healer could attend to the patient in the litter. “My lady wishes to know more about this mysterious ally.”_

_“My lady will unfortunately have to wait,” the healer said briskly, supervising as the four riders who had rigged a litter between them lowered it carefully to the ground. “I’m not entirely certain that this woman will survive her injuries. It’s a miracle she’s survived this long.”_

_“A woman?” He blinked in surprise, reviewing the scout’s report to see if they’d made a mistake. “The scouts reported…”_

_“They were loath to admit she was a woman, but her body is clearly that of a woman’s, and she wears her hair long.” Two trainee healers lifted the litter and hurried off towards the infirmary, Halbarad and the healer close behind. “Without asking her directly, I must treat her as she seems to be, and beg forgiveness later. She was wearing men’s garb, at least as far as I could tell.”_

_“What of her injuries then?” Putting aside this relatively benign mystery, Halbarad focused on what he needed to report to Gilraen so that she could make decisions. “You said she might not survive?”_

_“She’s been badly whipped.” Arriving in the infirmary, the healer rolled up her sleeves and washed her hands in the basin waiting for her as the trainees carefully lifted the prone form onto an empty cot. “Mind her back lads, and leave her on her side. If we break open those wounds, she’ll lose too much blood to survive, if she hasn’t already.”_

_“Did they say why she was whipped?” Halbarad watched as the healer inspected the woman, lifting the loose tunic to examine the bandages underneath. He thought to avert his eyes, but the hill woman's back was entirely wrapped in bandages, not a single bit of skin showing._

_“They say she angered the Angmarim, but refused to tell me how or where. Only that it was no longer safe for her among their people, and that they hoped she could make a home among Golodir’s people.”_

_“So they do know of Golodir and his company,” he mused, as the healer gently settled the woman against a pillow and drew a light blanket over her to keep her from the chill of early autumn. “Did they say more about them?”_

_“They’re dead, or presumed to be so,” the healer’s voice was heavy with pain. “Those that they recovered were buried outside Aughaire. The ones that I spoke to did not know the full accounting, but said that she would tell us when she awakens.”_

_The healer’s voice betrayed her skepticism. “They must have great confidence in her, if they believe she might wake.” Halbarad had never seen a person so pale but in death. The woman’s skin was as white as the fresh fallen snow in the mountains, her hair as dark as raven wings on her gaunt cheeks._

_Turning to leave the cot, the healer shrugged. “The way they said it, they seem to have no doubt of it. Apparently, they’ll send her things along in a week, so that she has them when she wakes.”_

Stirred out of the memory, Halbarad nodded to Kreacher as the house elf appeared to check on his mistress, the sight stirring another memory as Kreacher settled next to her.

_“What is going on?” he shouted over the ruckus near the stables. Normally they were overly cautious about noise, given that Esteldin’s position was not yet known to the Enemy, and they took advantage of that secrecy to hide the legacy of their people as well as the greatest gathering of those people in a single place._

_“Sorry sir,” one of the hostlers said from where he was wielding a pitchfork as he stalked around a haystack. “But we think there’s something...odd that came in from Angmar with the hillman’s luggage.”_

_“Odd how?” Halbarad had forgotten that the hill woman's belongings were supposed to arrive in Esteldin, and resented that his scouts had been reduced to playing packhorse for a woman who lay unconscious in the infirmary with no sign that she would ever wake, beyond the continued life in her that baffled the healers._

_“Some sort of creature,” one of the lads called out from where he was soothing the horses. “It asked where the wounded were kept, but it talked funny, like it didn’t know how to speak proper.”_

_Before Halbarad could say or do anything else, he found himself accosted by a small creature, even smaller than a hobbit, with large, bat-like ears and bulging eyes. It glared up at him, arms crossed over his chest. “Where have dunedain hidden Kreacher’s mistress?” the creature said, in a rumbling bass voice at odds with its size. “Crannog said dunedain would be keeping mistress safe and making her well.”_

_“I am Halbarad, second to Lady Gilraen, who is chieftain in her son’s absence,” Halbarad said, crossing his own arms and meeting the creature glare for glare. “You will explain why you are here, or we will have to take other measures.”_

_“Kreacher serves his mistress, nobody else,” the being growled. “Mistress was brought here ten days back, and Kreacher waited to make sure mistress’s things were gathered properly.”_

_“If you are from Aughaire and your mistress is of the hillfolk there, how is it that you come to speak Sindarin?” Halbarad asked, genuinely curious, and strongly suspecting that there was even more to their mysterious hillwoman than they had first thought. “It is hardly a common tongue these days.” That the being was holding an entire conversation in the language was little short of astonishing; few men beyond the dunedain learned the language, and only those who often spoke with elves retained much of it._

_“Laerdon told Kreacher’s mistress, and mistress told Kreacher that if they were ever in need, to find one of the dunedain, and speak in this tongue.” The being, who Halbarad was now reasonably certain called itself_ Kreacher _, harrumphed. “Should Kreacher mangle the old elvish which is not elvish at all if you ask Kreacher? Laerdon taught us that too.”_

_“That is easy enough to ascertain,” a musical voice said, and Halbarad turned to see Lady Gilraen crossing the courtyard with Glorfindel walking beside her. He hadn’t realized the elflord had not yet ridden for Imladris; the last missive from the Last Homely House had ordered the arrival of Glorfindel and the sons of Elrond in a month’s time for some event. From the looks of the elflord’s clothes, he’d been coming to the stables to get Asfaloth and leave._

_“_ Alatulya _Kreacher,” Glorfindel said, after Lady Gilraen gestured for him to proceed. “_ Hríve úva véna. _”_

_“_ Miquorco _,” the creature sneered at the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, and Halbarad had to think about the translation for a minute before he realized what exactly one of the oldest elves in Middle Earth had just been told to do. It had been difficult, since he had rarely heard Quenya spoken, and Kreacher’s accent and command of grammar was hardly standard. Torn between horror and amusement, he turned to Lady Gilraen and Glorfindel, to find that his lady was holding her sleeve before her face, but her eyes were dancing with laughter. Glorfindel only bowed solemnly to Kreacher, but there was amusement in his eyes as well._

_“Well met, Kreacher, but I am afraid that I will have to decline. Your accent is certainly of Eregion, which is little known of late. Tell me, what news of Laerdon and those he accompanied?”_

_Halbarad raised his eyebrow at the gathered men and women, brought by the commotion, and they slowly dispersed, seeing that Glorfindel and their lady had the matter well in hand. One of the hostlers brought him a satchel, and he held it carefully, suspecting that these were the possessions that Kreacher had stayed to safeguard. It was oddly light for a satchel, but he resisted the urge to peak inside._

_“They passed the Rammas Deluon, and fell to the Watching Stones,” Kreacher croaked, bowing his head. “Seventy men fell, and were buried by mistress and her people. Golodir and Laerdon were not among them, but Kreacher will say no more until he sees his mistress.”_

_“Halbarad will take you to her,” Gilraen said, her face composed now, grief heavy on her shoulders. “Thank you for your news of our missing company.”_

_“Come with me, and I will take you to the healers, who have been tending to your mistress,” Halbarad offered the satchel, and Kreacher nearly snatched it out of his hands. “I must warn you, they do not have much hope for her, though she has survived beyond the odds given to her when she arrived.”_

_Kreacher sniffed, his chin held high. “Mistress will wake when she is healed. She always does.”_

_“They do not think she will heal,” Halbarad tried to gentle his tone, news like this was always hard to break. “Injuries like this tend to kill, if not the initial injury, the infection will.”_

_“Kreacher’s mistress has survived worse.” The being’s tone dropped as they entered the part of the ruined fortress that held the infirmary. “Kreacher’s mistress has mastered_ Death.”

Halbarad squeezed Thuri’s shoulder gently, wishing he could talk to her, but knowing that nothing he said would make a difference. Just as she had been certain about any number of things in their long acquaintance, he was certain that he would not survive the coming battle. And he worried that she would throw herself headlong into danger in response.

* * *

She woke, and within a single moment, she was utterly certain that she wasn’t anywhere near Pelargir anymore.

“Mistress will be drinking this now,” Kreacher’s voice said as she sat up, and a vial was shoved in her face. Cracking the seal, Holly didn’t hesitate before dumping the potion down her throat, coughing as she swallowed. From the taste, it was one of her makeshift nutrient potions, one she had actually managed to find non-magical substitutes for the magical ingredients and get to come together in an effective potion before she nearly accidentally blew up her makeshift lab and decided to shelve all future brewing experiments. But it did stop the spinning in her head quite effectively, and she welcomed the waterskin the house elf traded her for the empty vial.

“How much time until we reach our destination?” she asked, only to have several heads swivel in her direction. Halbarad reacted first with a long suffering sigh.

“You’ve been out for nearly two days, and your first question is how long until we arrive?”

She shrugged, stretching to test her range of motion. “You’ve known me long enough. This was just exhaustion, no healing needed. Given that we’re currently on ships, it’s easy to tell that we won the battle at Pelargir and are sailing towards the _next_ battle at the Pelennor Fields, and as such, I’d really like to know how much time I have to check my weapons before we arrive.”

“Kreacher attended to mistress’ weapons,” her house elf said imperiously. “And mistress’ horse. Mistress can relax.”

“Thanks Kreacher, but if that’s been attended to already, I ought to figure out what the plan is.” Finding no lingering stiffness that would impede her movements in battle, Holly stood, bracing herself against the side of the ship until she was certain she trusted her legs.

“No matter how many times I see this, it never fails to amaze me,” Daervunn commented from where he was sitting on a crate pulled up around the barrel that held what looked like a map. “You just wake up and are ready to go.”

“It’s less a blessing, more a curse,” she muttered, realizing her hood was down and her hair was black again. Fixing her _Thuri_ appearance in place with a twist of magic, she decided to leave her hood down, like the others gathered in the prow of the boat, and shuffled over to look at the map. “What do we know about the situation?”

“Absolutely nothing, beyond that the Enemy marched from Osgiliath and have likely besieged the city by now,” Calenglad said, face grim. “We’ve had no news since we set out.”

“Absolutely wonderful,” Holly grumbled, and then realized what must have been happening when she woke. “Wait, you had a meeting while I was napping nearby?”

* * *

As they drew near the landing of the Pelennor, Holly felt her heart sinking. The battlefield was overrun with servants of the Enemy. Yet hope blossomed again, lifting her heart as she saw the standard of the Rohirrim flying on a hillock.

“We are not too late,” Aragorn whispered, almost as a prayer, eyes fixed on the fields before him. He cleared his throat, and turned to the collection of warriors and soldiers they had collected, their total number spread out among the fleet, with _dunedain_ members of the Grey Company commanding them to coordinate the assault.

“Men of Gondor, men of Arnor!” he shouted, his voice carrying across the water. “Now is the hour of Gondor’s greatest need! We fight for kin, we fight for kingdom, we fight for all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth!”

A great roar arose, and Holly caught a glimpse of Aragorn’s eyes as he turned to Halbarad, who was once more holding the furled standard wrought by Arwen. Giving his kinsman a slight nod, Aragorn drew Anduril, the blade flaming as it caught the sun, but even its brilliant fire could not be bested by the mithril and gold of Elendil’s crown as Halbarad let the standard of the king fly. The wind that had driven off the rain and filled their sails caught it, and spread it wide so that all might see and know that Elendil’s heir had returned to the White City.

“Now!” Aragorn cried, and lept from the ship as the Rohirrim gathered on the hillock let out a great cry. From the distant city, the sound of horns and bells rang out. Halbarad met Holly’s eyes and gave her a sad smile, following his king and kinsmen over the side, Holly right on his heels. The sons of Elrond followed, their swords bright in the sun as they drove a path towards the Rohirrim, led by Eomer, if Holly saw the crested helmet correctly. Around her, men from coastal Gondor flooded out of their ships, their _dunedain_ captains leading them onward before rejoining the Grey Company as it gathered behind Aragorn Elessar.

“Just like back home?” she called to Daervunn as she jumped for an overhang and hauled herself up onto the roof, lifting her bow over her shoulder as she rose. The collection of buildings at the docks were perfect cover for the orcs, Haradrim, and Easterlings, but from her rooftop perch, she could see them far easier. Legolas joined her, and together they drew back their bows.

Holly’s arrow took down a massive orc that was raising a battle axe behind Golodir as he hurried towards Aragorn. Legolas’s went further afield, striking down an Easterling as he nearly hewed a Gondorian man in half with a wicked looking scimitar.

Daervunn paused and looked up with her. “I don’t know how this is anything like home,” he commented, turning to block a heavy black blade with his own. “We don’t have any ports in the north, none that aren’t overrun or underwater.”

“Once we get clear of this, it’s all open land, dotted with farmhouses,” Holly called down, sending another arrow into the fray, grinning as a Haradrim crumpled. “Is _that_ familiar enough to you?”

“Are you saying we came all this way just to fight the same damn fight as usual?” a _dunedain_ called, and it took Holly a moment to place him as Dagoras, who she’d fought alongside with in Esteldin during several skirmishes. “Really?”

“The odds are even more against us than usual,” Calenglad shouted as his group of Gondorians pressed through an alleyway, making short work of any foe to cross their paths. “How’s that for a difference.”

“Less talking more killing,” Daervunn yelled back as Holly had opened her mouth to respond. She gestured with her free hand as she and Legolas jumped to another rooftop, moving with their force as Aragorn and the vanguard emerged onto the fields proper, and Holly saw any of the _dunedain_ in easy sight of her hand laugh. The rangers had developed a reasonably complex sign language for use in situations where noise needed to be avoided, and, as was human nature, it had inevitably been expanded with gestures that were of no tactical importance, such as the one she had just signed at Daervunn’s back. Loosely translated, it meant ‘spoilsport’, but the extra flourish with which she’d signed it gave it a particularly rude flare.

He was right though, as conversation was set aside in favor of simply staying alive. Despite the Rohirric force still on the field, and the Gondorian defenders pressing out from Minas Tirith, the forces of the Free Peoples were outnumbered significantly, and the fact that the Haradrim seemed to be riding _giant elephants_ only made that worse. Legolas and Holly, along with whatever other archers they found amongst their ragtag band of defenders from southern and coastal Gondor found themselves broken up into small blocks and sent off to harass the great beasts, along with whatever pikeman they could round up. As she watched one of the elephants fall, Holly couldn’t help but feel a hint of regret for its loss, Hermione’s voice in the back of her head rattling on about endangered species and how the elephants were just doing what humans had forced them to do.

When the last of the elephants was down, she rejoined the rest of the Grey Company. They fought tirelessly through the fields, shoulder to shoulder, and Holly’s fingers cracked and bled from the thrumming vibration of her bowstring against her fingertips, despite the leather of her gloves. Eventually she ran out of arrows, reaching for one and finding her quivers empty, despite the fact that she’d filled two to bursting. Rather than stop to gather them from the field, she shouldered her bow and drew her knives, throwing herself at a Haradrim who was about to stab Calenglad as he fended off an Easterling warrior. The man fell quickly to her knives, and Holly fell easily into a familiar routine, watching her brother’s backs as they drove their way through the enemy.

A choked gasp made her turn, and as if in slow motion, she saw the standard falling, taking her heart with it. Halbarad crumpled to the ground. She thought she might have screamed, but she did not know if sound came from her mouth. Lunging for him, she caught him as he fell, cradling him in her lap. Aragorn was turning, seeing the standard fall, a question on his lips, but her ears were filled with Halbarad’s unsteady breath.

“Hold on,” she hissed, digging her fingers into his cowl and ripping it away, yanking at her glove so that she could press her fingers against the bare skin of his neck. “Don’t you dare!” 

His whispered: “ _This is my fate_ ,” chilled her to her bones, and Holly snarled wordlessly in frustration as her glove stuck to her fingers, the tacky, drying blood acting like glue. Finally, she just ripped it free, not caring that the scabs broke open and her fingers bled once more. Pressing her fingers against his neck, she reached for his soul and found nothing; it had passed quickly into the halls of Mandos, and for the first time in many, many years, she hated with a fury that she rarely achieved.

For a long moment, she stared at the unseeing eyes, how stark the contrast was between the blood smeared on his neck from her fingertips and the skin underneath.

There was a hand on her shoulder, and Daervunn was crouching beside her. Blankly, she wondered if the grief in his eyes was mirrored in her own, or if they reflected the utter devastation she felt. She had never, ever wanted to feel loss like this, and when she had arrived here, she had taken comfort in the thought that she never would. Shaking her head in a vain attempt to clear it, she picked up the banner and thrust it at him. “Take up his place, as is your right,” she rasped, throat aching from grief and from her initial scream. “You are the Steward of the North now.”

Then, without another word, she dug her fingers deep into the soil of the Pelennor, reaching for the magic within her and the magic of the land, long forgotten and dormant, never to wake again as it had once been.

* * *

Aragorn had faltered in his charge, turning in time to gut the Haradrim that had felled Halbarad, but Daervunn roughly pushed his king forward again. The standard felt heavy and wrong in his hand, but he raised it high anyway, knowing that it was the tangible hope of the Free Peoples, who had faltered when the banner fell. Just as Aragorn had faltered when Halbarad fell. “My king, you cannot tarry. Halbarad is beyond all help now.”

He had seen Thuri reach his fallen brother, seen her anguish written across her face as her hood fell away, heard her keening wordlessly, nearly inaudible as she cradled Halbarad’s body. At her direction, knowing what he must do, he had picked up the king’s standard and raised it high once more, but he had lingered long enough to see rage blooming on her face, her control over whatever magic enabled her changes slipping, until she wore the raven hair and green eyes that he knew was her natural form. As the lightning scar that spread across her forehead shimmered into appearance, Daervunn pressed his king forward.

Never in their acquaintance had Thuri lost control, but he had heard what she had done after the loss of Faredir to the Rammas Deluon. She had known Halbarad for longer, been closer with him. He feared what his loss meant for her, and for anyone too close to her if she did lose control.

Seeing Aragorn hesitating, Anduril, still blazing despite the blood it was now covered with drooping at his side, Daervunn pushed again, putting a little more force into it. “Aragorn, your people _need_ you,” he snapped, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “We cannot throw all of this away for the death of a single man, even one such as Halbarad.”

Slowly, Aragorn turned. If he had been a bright, vengeful king before, now he was death incarnate, hewing down all who came within reach of his sword. Anduril blazed all the brighter, seeming to take on its wielder’s fury and grief. Yet Daervunn couldn’t help but notice the eerie red glow overtaking the battlefield, and as the tide of battle flowed, he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of a figure walking unhurriedly through the chaos.

Thuri walked, her hood down, hair springing loose from its normal braids, Halbarad’s body in her arms. A red tint filled the air around her, and any foe who came near her fell lifeless to the ground. As she passed, those challenging members of the Grey Company fell, faces contorted in surprise and agony.

Passing the standard to Calenglad, who had fought his way through the fray to continue fighting by Aragorn’s side, Daervunn cautiously approached the woman, who was exercising more magic than he’d ever seen her use before. “Thuri, where are you going?”

“I am taking him to the city, where he may rest until it is time to bury him.” Her voice was flat and toneless, unnerving.

“And what of the battle?” he asked, wondering how Thuri, who was always first onto the field and last to retreat was so willing to abandon the battle now, even with Halbarad’s death.

“Am I not helping?” she shifted Halbarad’s body effortlessly so that she had a free hand, and with a casual flick of her hand, the group of Easterlings staging a fairly successful stand against a group of southern Gondorians collapsed, the life torn from their body. “I will not leave his body to be despoiled by battle and carrion birds. He deserves more than that.”

“Very well then,” Daervunn murmured, and returned to Aragorn’s side, accepting the standard from Calenglad. He wasn’t keen on arguing with the woman, though he worried she would burn herself out, with the amount of magic she seemed to be throwing around. Setting aside her seeming ability to rip the life from the bodies of those who chose, she was expending magic to carry Halbarad, because while she was strong for her size, she wasn’t strong enough to carry a grown man in armor with a single hand.

He did not see her for a long while after that, as the fighting carried him where Aragorn went, which was usually the thickest parts of the fighting, where Haradrim and Easterlings were making their last stand in any somewhat defensible place in the fields. But as afternoon crept into evening, Daervunn saw her once more, magic still blazing brilliantly around her in a corona of red.

She had found another body on the field, and his heart sank as he saw the familiar grey cloak of his brethren. Thuri knelt next to the fallen man, and gently wrapped his cloak around him, kissing his brow as she drew his hood up to cover his face. As she rose, Daervunn realized she no longer wore her own cloak, and at some point her hair had come fully out of its braids, tumbling down to her waist in an unruly mass of black curls.

“Was it not enough to destroy the northern kingdom, to bring an end to the line of kings here in Gondor?” she shouted, and the battlefield around her went quiet, Free People and servants of the Enemy alike stilling in the face of the witch’s wrath. “Was it not enough to send his people into exile, to tear down their ancient fortresses, to corrupt and pillage their ruins? Was it not enough to kill his people, to burn their homes and livelihoods?”

Her rage was palpable, spreading out over the battlefield in waves, like someone had cast a stone into still water and these were the ripples. Slowly, deliberately, Thuri lifted her staff from its harness next to her bow, and held it out before her, parallel to the ground.

“I could have forgiven the destruction of his kingdom, the end of the acknowledged line of kings, for those are old crimes, and not the fault of any man or orc living this day,” she said, her voice terribly still. “I could have come to accept the death of his people in battle, because such is the way of war. But you have killed my brothers, and I _cannot_ accept that. I will have _justice_ , as is my _right_. If you wish to surrender to my king and lord, you have a minute to lay down your arms.”

None of the Haradrim or Easterlings close enough to hear her moved to throw down their weapons. One of them that Daervunn was close enough to reach scoffed, spitting disdainfully on the ground. “Stupid woman, what have we to fear from you and your stick? Go home, and let the men die for you. We will come for you soon enough.”

Just as slowly as she had lifted her staff from its harness, Thuri turned to fix the man with the vibrant green of her stare. “ _I_ have come for you _now_ ,” she murmured, somehow just as audible as she had been when she was shouting. “I will lose no more brothers today.”

In a fast, fluid movement, she rotated her staff so that it was perpendicular to the ground and slammed the butt down, driving it into the trampled soil of the Pelennor. Daervunn felt an invisible force slam into him, and he staggered back and fell to his knees, seeing Aragorn and everyone around him doing the same, but any servant of the Enemy that was struck by the wave collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

With a shaky hand, Daervunn reached out to the Haradrim who had spoken, and rolled him over, unsurprised to see unseeing eyes staring up at him. Somehow, much as she had cleared her path to Minas Tirith, she had dropped every foe in...he raised his head to see how far the waves had travelled, which seemed to be one hundred _ragnar_.

As if in slow motion, Daervunn saw Thuri crumple slowly to the ground, her staff clattering against the hard packed soil. Glancing at Aragorn for permission, he waited for his king’s nod, and rose and hurried over to the fallen woman.

She was still breathing.

That was honestly not surprising, given the number of times he’d seen her carried into the infirmary.

Her face was pale, her breathing shallow, perspiration beading on her brow. The red aura that had surrounded her since Halbarad’s death was fading, whisked away by the breeze. 

Footsteps on the ground behind him made Daervunn look up; Aragorn was approaching, Elladan and Elrohir not far behind. Calenglad had raised the standard once more, and followed close behind Aragorn in Daervunn’s place.

“She lives,” Daervunn announced, and those members of the Grey Company that were nearby raised a ragged cheer. “My lords, I would have you examine her, but I think she has merely overexerted herself once more.”

Elladan knelt next to him, and placed his hand on Thuri’s chest, closing his eyes in concentration. “She will recover, though when she wakes is beyond my knowledge. Thuri Ruinil has struck a great blow for us.”

“Ruinil,” several members of the Grey Company echoed, tone awed, the title passing until Daervunn heard it repeated over the field, spreading far beyond the Grey Company until the honorific seemed to be on every tongue. 

_Red flame_ they called her, and he couldn’t help but think of the list of names she carried with her, exchanging them as needed.

_Home Ruler_ , her parents had called her. _Sorrow_ , the Trév Gállorg. _Secret,_ the _dunedain_ and Rangers.

Only her chosen name among the Bree-folk bore no weight. Holly was only the name for a shrub or tree, it meant nothing beyond that. She said she’d chosen it because it was a close cognate to her birth-name, enough so that she would pay attention when it was called.

_What would she think of this new name_? Daervunn watched the rise and fall of her chest, knowing he ought to attend to his king, knowing that they were in the middle of an active battlefield, but unable to tear his eyes away. It was selfish, it was personal, but Halbarad and Thuri had been his closest companions ever since he had taken the position as Halbarad’s second. A life without one was manageable, but to find himself suddenly bereft of both in the same day seemed too painful to bear.

“It seems as if Thuri dealt the final blow of the battle,” Elrohir said, striding up to them. “The Rohirric forces, as well as the knights of Dol Amroth have mopped up the fringes, but the greatest of the remaining servants of the Enemy were within range of her working.”

Startled, Daervunn looked up and saw that the elf’s words were true. The only people left standing on the field were men of Gondor, Rohan, and the Grey Company. Reluctantly, he rose, and looked for Calenglad, who stood with Aragorn, grimly bearing the standard where Daervunn should be.

“Can you bear it for a while longer?” Daervunn asked the man who would be his second, as Daervunn had once been Halbarad’s. As the commander of the garrison at Tinnudir, watching over Annuminas, Calenglad was the third senior commander under Aragorn, with Halbarad and Daervunn being the first and second respectively. “There are things I must arrange.”

“Whatever you need brother,” Caleglad said quietly.

Unable to find words to answer, Daervunn just nodded and looked around, taking stock of the standing members of the Grey Company. Spotting a familiar face, he beckoned Dagoras over. The man bore several wounds from what he could see, but moved easily enough.

“Go to Harlond and bring the mounts,” Daervunn told him. “At least my lord’s and the sons of Elrond. The others can wait. And if you can, check on Kreacher.”

The house elf would likely have felt the expenditure of magic that Thuri had displayed, and might have even been affected, if Daervunn understood the connection between the pair correctly. At the very least, he’d want to mother-hen his mistress, at worst he would need to recuperate with her. Dagoras nodded and jogged off tiredly, and Daervunn turned to his next task.

There were far fewer members of the Grey Company standing than he had hoped, and as he tried to suss out what he needed done next, Corunir approached, limping. “Permission to take a headcount and attempt to find our dead?” the man asked, eyes full of grief and shoulders bent under the weight of it.

“Please,” Daervunn said, glad that the other man had put his vague thoughts into a coherent order. “We all know of Halbarad’s fate, but Thuri mentioned _brothers_ plural.” He did not mention that there was a body not far from where Thuri had collapsed.

“It was Golodir she found,” Corunir said, closing his eyes briefly. “But there are too few of us that I can see. I’ll take one of the others, and we’ll search, though night is coming on fast.”

“Make torches,” Daervunn said. “Split those who are mobile between search parties and a guard for our king. I do not want to trust that all of our foes have departed from the field. Dagoras has gone for mounts from Harlond, and I trust that we will either set up camp on the fields or in the city. Wherever we are, it will be noticeable.”

Corunir saluted, and started moving towards the nearest clump of grey cloaked figures. Elrohir had switched places with his brother, and was seated on the ground, Thuri’s head in his lap, eyes closed as his hands rested on her temples. Deciding that he had the situation well in hand, Daervunn went to his king’s side.

“My lord,” he said, bowing slightly. “Dagoras is bringing your horse from Harlond, as well as yours, Lord Elladan. It should only be a little while before they are here. Corunir is taking a headcount and leading the search for the wounded.”

“Do we know who Thuri found?” Aragorn asked, carefully cleaning Anduril on a scrap of cloth that looked to be torn from an Easterling cloak.

“Golodir, my lord,” Daervunn reported, glancing over at the cloak wrapped body. “She had known him in Aughaire, which is likely why she reacted as she had.” To be honest, Daervunn suspected that Thuri would have snapped no matter which of the company she had found, given that she’d traveled amongst their camps so extensively she’d known most of them before they rode to war.

“Once the horses arrive, we should seek out the Prince of Dol Amroth and Eomer, should they have survived,” Aragorn said, peering through the growing darkness. “I would have their account of events here, and Gandalf’s, should the wizard be found.”

“Prince Imrahil yet lives, as does Eomer,” Legolas Thranduilion said, coming up out of the gloom with Gimli son of Gloin keeping pace with him. “I have seen them, riding this way.”

“And here comes Dagoras with the horses,” Elladan motioned towards the sound of hoofbeats. “Elrohir, în gwadorrim tirath în.”

Gently, Elrohir lifted Thuri’s head from his lap and bundled his cloak beneath her head. Dagoras appeared, riding Daervunn’s horse and leading Aragorn’s and the pair belonging to the sons of Elrond. Behind trailed a Rohirric horse that Daervunn recognized as the mount belonging to Legolas Thranduilion, though it bore no tack. Slipping down, he passed Gwaerohir’s reins to Daervunn before leading the other mounts to their riders. “The other mounts are being led up by some of the Gondorians we picked up,” he said, returning as Daervunn finished checking the stirrups and prepared to mount up. “I had a chance to look in on Kreacher, and the boy we left with the horses says he passed out not long ago. He’ll be coming on Nor, I told the boy to lead the horse carefully, and secured Kreacher in place on her saddle.”

“Find whomever is supervising the wounded and make sure the pair of them get to them,” Daervunn hauled himself up into the saddle, feeling weary but knowing that there were a hundred and one things to do before he could rest. “They’re out of any danger, but who knows how long they will sleep?”

Moving off, he took up the standard from Calenglad. “Supervise things here, and send a mounted guard once one’s been assembled,” he said, settling the pole against his stirrup as he’d seen Halbarad do any number of times since they set out from Rivendell. “Prioritize gathering and treating the wounded and figuring out options for us to camp outside the city walls if necessary. Bring up supplies from the ships if there’s time, I’m sure the city won’t mind us supplying ourselves.”

Aragorn and the elves were already moving towards the approaching horsemen, and Daervunn urged Gwaerohir after them, nearly falling into his old place behind the group before remembering and moving up into the place half a pace behind Aragorn’s right.

_This is Halbarad’s place_ , his brain reminded him, and he closed his eyes against the fresh wave of grief. It was a place of honor, but he would give it up if it meant having his brother back.

“Hail and well met!” Eomer called as he drew near, the Prince of Dol Amroth not far behind him. “The day is ours, though it does not feel it. Many sorrows have I borne since we last met. Theoden King has fallen, and my sister with him.”

“Your lady sister yet lives, at least when I came across her,” the Prince of Dol Amroth exclaimed. “They were to bear her to the Houses of Healing in the city.”

“That is good news unlooked for!” the new king of Rohan exclaimed, shoulders straightening slightly. “This day has cost my people and myself much, and I am glad to find that my sister may yet live.”

“It has cost all the Free Peoples,” Aragorn said, and Daervunn suspected the slump of his shoulders had much to do with the loss of Halbarad, and how few of the Grey Company had been standing when Thuri collapsed. “Yet the day is ours, and that is more than we could have hoped for. The Enemy did not expect to lose this battle.”

The three leaders rode towards the city, still conversing, and Daervunn moved Gwaerohir into place behind Aragorn, standard still braced in his stirrup. Knights bearing the swan-sigil of Dol Amroth fell in on his left, behind their prince, and a Rohirric man Daervunn vaguely recognized drew his mount up on his right.

“Where is Thuri?” the man asked as their leaders conversed before them, and the sons of Elrond spoke quietly with Legolas and Gimli behind them. “Did he fall?”

“Thuri will be well, in time,” Daervunn said, used to people being hoodwinked by her disguise. “We have lost several of our company, and their losses made Thuri more vengeful than usual, but with rest, we expect a full recovery.”

“Do all of you northmen ride so well as he?”

Daervunn grinned, remembering why Halbarad had chosen to place her with the message riders after several other postings had been exhausted. “Thuri is one of our more adventurous riders, and few can compare when it comes to sheer audacity.”

“Perhaps one day he will return to Rohan and ride one of our horses as he said he wished to,” the man said, resting his hand on his own mount’s neck. “We have lost many of our mounts this day and it will take years before our herds recover.”

“My lord Aragorn, and Prince Legolas and Gimli son of Gloin rode Rohirric horses when we overtook them near the Fords of Isen,” Daervunn was confused. He had seen Thuri approach with Eomer, but Aragorn had been on foot when he came out of the crowd as well. “Did she not ride then?”

“We did not have enough mounts to spare when we overtook them on the plains as they pursued an orc host from Amon Hen. Thuri rode double with Boromir of Gondor, and when we rode from Edoras to Helm’s Deep, he often switched between mounts, riding with me and other members of Eomer King’s household.” The man stopped speaking, looking as if he was thinking back through what had just been said. “I’m sorry, but did you just say _she_?”

Daervunn couldn’t help but smile; it was by far the most common initial reaction to Thuri’s gender being revealed, and he’d seen her handle it any number of amusing ways. However, Elladan’s laugh rang out as the elf rode up to join them. “ _Thuri_ is the Sindarin word for secret,” he said lightly, his brother and the Mirkwood prince joining them. “I believe the secret being kept was her gender.”

“Also that she survived the many, many times Angmar attempted to kill her,” Daervunn said with a shrug. “It was an equal opportunity naming.”

“So she is the one who dealt the final blow,” Eomer’s voice was raised; Daervunn hadn’t realized the kings and Prince of Dol Amroth were listening to their conversation. “I had been surprised, when I saw her walking through the battlefield towards the city, but I had seen her hair when we laid Boromir of Gondor to rest, and realized it must be her. She is a witch?”

“Thuri has some ability with magic,” Daervunn said carefully. Terms like _witch_ and _sorceress_ were often conflated with _servant of the Enemy_ , and people grew hostile when they were used. “She finds herself more comfortable with more traditional weapons though, unless greatly upset. Her loyalty is sworn in an unbreakable oath to the line of Isildur.”

“What do you mean, _dealt the final blow_?” Aragorn asked as the gates of Minas Tirith grew larger as they shortened the distance between them. “Surely there was not a single final pocket of fighting?”

“It was the strangest thing, but as I remember her march to the gates, it makes more sense now,” Eomer explained. “There were but a few enemies remaining, and something happened that caused them to fall down, dead as can be without a mark on them. Much as those she had deliberately struck down as she passed before.”

  
“No wonder she’s exhausted,” Daervunn heard Elrohir murmur to his brother. “If this stretched far beyond the hundred _ragnar_ we knew of.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely everything happens in this chapter and everyone ends up at least somewhat confused. We've got one chapter left that's more of a wrap-up and then we're done!
> 
> Alatulya: (Q) Welcome  
> Hríve úva véna: (Q) Winter is drawing near (Glorfindel is making conversation about the weather, mostly to test Kreacher's grasp of Quenya beyond greetings)  
> Miquorco: (Q) a combination of the verb "to kiss" and the word for orc. Kreacher's command of grammar in other languages is as spotty as it is in English.  
> în gwadorrim tirath în: (S) her brothers will guard her. This is the sentence that delayed the chapter and if anyone can construct that sentence any better I am all ears.
> 
> ragnar: a unit of measurement, just a little larger than a meter/yard.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirty days and one have passed since you collapsed on the Pelennor.

**Chapter Seventeen:**

When Holly awoke, she was confused by the ceiling above her head.

“You are awake,” a familiar voice said, and slowly, Holly managed to turn her head to the side, biting back a groan at her muscles’ protests. She had been unconscious for quite some time, she thought, feeling the stiffness of her body.

To her surprise, the Lady Eowyn of Rohan sat in a chair by her bedside, a weighty volume on her lap, but she was far changed from the woman Holly had left behind in Dunharrow.

“First, your servant, Kreacher, is well. He has asked to assist in the keeping of this house, and his request was granted.” Eowyn set aside the tome and gently helped Holly to sit up, arranging the pillows behind her to provide optimal support. “Here, drink,” she murmured, pressing a cup gently into Holly’s hands, helping her curl her fingers around it. “It will restore you. Thirty days and one have passed since you collapsed on the Pelennor.”

Carefully, Holly swallowed, trying to pace herself. The water was cool, and laced with some sort of herbal draught. It would strengthen her, she decided after a moment. More importantly, it would not make her sleep.

Once she had finished the cup, she let it rest in her lap, hands curled around it. “What of the Enemy?” she asked, half afraid to hear the answer. “And my lord Aragorn?”

“The Enemy has been defeated, some twenty-one days thence,” Eowyn hastened to assure her. “King Elessar has made camp at the Fields of Cormallen with the host of the West, which he commands with the Prince of Dol Amroth and Eomer King. We expect their return to the city by the first day of May, and the coronation of the High King will take place before the city gates.”

_ It is finished then _ . Holly closed her eyes as her fingers tightened around the cup. She had no right to feel bereaved when all that her sworn people had hoped for and worked for have come to fruition. Yet she felt a sense of loss nonetheless, and hated herself for it.

“There must be much rejoicing in the city,” she said after she felt more in control. “The Enemy destroyed, and the King returned to his people.”

Eowyn smiled, and Holly realized that it was a far more genuine smile than she had ever seen the woman wear. “There is much rejoicing indeed, though there is also much grief at the losses we have suffered.”

Seeing a sheen of wetness in the other woman’s eyes, Holly thought back through what Eowyn had said, and cautiously reached out a hand to rest on Eowyn’s knee, the closest she could reach without falling over. “I grieve with you over the loss of Theoden King,” she murmured. “May he sit with pride in the halls of his fathers, for there is no doubt of his valor. I assume we are in Minas Tirith?”

“You are in the House of Healing,” Eowyn said after a moment, composed once more, though there was still grief in her eyes. “I am told that you were carried here by the  _ dunedain _ when the host prepared to move out.”

“How did you come to be here my lady?” Holly asked, but there was movement at the door, and a tall man with a strong resemblance to Boromir entered.

“Still keeping vigil as you study my lady?” he said, voice light and teasing, only to draw up short when he realized Holly was sitting upright. “I apologize my lady, I did not know you had awakened.”

“It is a relatively new development,” she managed to choke out after a moment of silence, words fighting for space around the lump in her throat. “Do I have the pleasure of meeting Faramir, brother of Boromir of Gondor?”

“You do, my lady,” he said, bowing politely. “But I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

“I am Thuri, who rides with the  _ dunedain _ , and who set out from Imladris, from Rivendell, with your brother and several others,” Holly managed what bow she could from her seated position, Eowyn steadying her gently as she wobbled to lean back against the pillows. “He bid me to tell you were the better of the two sons of Denethor, and that you would have succeeded where he failed, but I do not believe him. Boromir of Gondor and I did not get along at the start, but I was proud to ride into battle with him, and his death grieved me.”

Faramir looked like a deer in the headlights, but Holly couldn’t stop, the words pouring out of her. She hated giving messages to the surviving family, hated it with a burning passion, and it was all the more difficult when she had been close to the victim. “Boromir was a good man, who fell under the sway of a tool of the Enemy’s malice. His fault was not of his own making, it played on his desire to protect his people and this city. When he came to himself, he instantly regretted, and immediately swore his life into the service of my king. Together we rode with my king to Helm’s Deep, and it was there Boromir fell, protecting my king with his last breath.”

The man looked at her, still wide eyed, but there was grief etched into his face. Holly regretted dumping so much onto him at once, but she felt a weight she hadn’t realized was there being lifted from her shoulders. Faramir bowed once, movements precise and practiced despite the play of emotions across his face and in his shoulders, and left the room in silence.

“Steward Denethor of Gondor perished during the battle,” Eowyn said after the silence lingered for a beat too long. “Faramir has taken up his father’s role, despite having recently risen from his own bed in this house. It is not spoken of openly, but I gather that Denethor lost himself to despair and sought a quick end for both himself and his badly wounded son. Gandalf and Merry’s friend were able to rescue Faramir, but not his father.”

“When you next see him, please apologize for my thoughtless timing,” Holly said, closing her eyes in shame. “I did not mean to add to his grief.”

“News of Boromir’s death came to Minas Tirith with the Rohirrim,” Eowyn replied, her voice steady, but sad. “I assume my brother, or my lord Aragorn spoke of it to my lord.”

For a moment, Holly saw Eowyn in a white dress that sparkled in the sun, a silver circlet on her brow and radiant joy in her face. “I am glad that you have found happiness with him,” she murmured, leaning back into her pillow, the flash of vision tiring her. “If he is anything like his brother, he is a good man.”

“We have not told my brother yet,” the woman hurried to say.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Holly felt weary once more, though she knew she’d slept for thirty-one days. “Honestly, I need to sleep more.”

“The healers wanted you to eat,” Eowyn rose hurriedly. “Do not sleep until I return, they have had quite an ordeal getting enough food into you to keep you alive.”

Reluctantly, Holly prised her eyes open to see the hem of Eowyn’s dress disappearing through the doorway. With nothing better to do, she looked around the room, taking it in for the first time since she’d awakened.

She was in a private room, but it had a wide window looking out into pleasant gardens where Holly could hear other people talking quietly. The linens were crisp and white, and there was a faint smell of herbs that transcended time and space, always a feature of any infirmary she’d ever been in. A wave of homesickness swept over her as she saw the old stone of the walls; they reminded her of Esteldin, of Tinnudir, of Annuminas.

Though, she had to admit, these stones were much better maintained than the stone walls of her northern homes. Gondor had clearly not suffered the same hardships as her northern sister, thought given the amount of movement Holly could hear in the building and its gardens, she suspected that she had hardships of her own.

Eowyn returned, wrapped in an apron, a tray with a bowl of soup in her hands. Kreacher followed on her heels, nearly hidden by her skirt, but Holly had to hide a smile as she saw his dark scowl. No doubt he felt that the woman had taken his task.

“They wish you to eat all of this,” Eowyn carefully set the tray down on Holly’s lap, fluffing the pillows as she helped Holly readjust. “Then you may sleep, if you so wish.”

“Kreacher made sure they gave Mistress what Mistress likes,” the house elf said, coming over to the opposite side of the bed and pointing at the tray. “Kreacher also made certain that Mistress had her bender tea.”

Looking, Holly found the gently steaming mug and smiled. “Thank you Kreacher,” she said, reaching out to rest her hand on his. “Did you suffer any ill effects? I’m sorry, I didn’t expect to lose control like that.”

“Kreacher slept for many days, that’s all,” he shrugged, seeming unbothered. “Kreacher is well.”

“I hear you’re helping here?” Holly picked up the spoon, having to focus to get her fingers to hold it steady as she transferred soup from the bowl to her mouth. She stopped, studied the bowl, and then decided against skipping the spoon and trying to drink from the bowl directly. That would probably cause her to spill the bowl down her front.

“Master of the House said Kreacher could help,” the house elf looked viciously proud. “Master Daervunn left instructions for if Kreacher woke before Mistress.”

“Good,” she said, for lack of anything else to say. If she didn’t know better, she could pretend that Halbarad was still alive, that Daervunn had been acting as his second just as always, but she still felt the aching hole in her chest that his death had ripped into her.

Suddenly, she didn’t want the weight of the tray in her lap. It reminded her too much of holding his body. Yet she held herself together long enough to finish the soup and drink the tea, and then Holly shoved the tray into Kreacher’s hands, her own hands trembling with the weight.

_ That’s going to take some time to rebuild _ , she thought, grouchy about the amount of reconditioning she’d have to undergo. It was a welcome diversion to the memory of Halbarad’s death, and Eowyn seemed to sense her mood, repeating back what a healer must have told her about Holly’s recovery. Holly listened to about half of it, knowing that while the healers were right about having to recondition herself, they didn’t have the full story. Now that she was awake, and she started eating regular food, whatever strange healing kept her alive would kick in, and Holly would be up on her feet and capable of riding within a week, though not much more.

For now though, she would sleep and let her body recover. More than that, she wasn’t ready to think about.

* * *

Seven days after her first waking, Holly slowly made her way down to the stables where the horses that had survived the Pelennor but not been ridden out to the Black Gates resided. Nor was there, one of only a few horses in the expansive stables. Gently, he nudged her with his nose as she reached out to rest her hand on his neck. Whoever had been caring for him had done a good job; not a hair was out of place. Still, she retrieved a brush from her saddlebags, which had been in her sickroom when she woke, and ran it carefully over his coat.

Bending over to pick out and inspect his hooves had nearly been too much, but she was careful and moved slowly, and Nor held steady, allowing her to lean against him.

“You going to be ready to go home soon?” she murmured, putting his brushes away and playing with his mane. Her tack sat nearby, spotless and well tended, so there was no need to worry about any repairs.

Nor nudged her again, and she leaned against the wall of his stall and smiled, but it took effort. She had seen the Ring as far as she could, aided and protected Aragorn, just as her oath required. In her things had been a note, signed by her king and witnessed by Daervunn, freeing her from all of the extras that she, Halbarad, and Gilraen had written into her loyalty oaths in the hopes that she could help keep him alive. Now she was just another Ranger, sworn into the service of the High King and the Northern Kingdom.

_ You don’t belong here, _ she told herself as she made her way back to the House of Healing.  _ Your place is in the north, preparing his kingdom for his return _ .

Stridently, she drowned out the voice in her head that told her that she was running away.

* * *

Daervunn stood behind his king as the coronation proceeded, but his mind was far from the man before him, currently being crowned by Gandalf as the hobbit ringbearer stood nearby. The few  _ dunedain _ whom he had left in the houses of healing stood with, yet slightly apart from, the Gondorian nobles, and he suspected they would join the remaining members of the Grey Company once the coronation was concluded.

Yet, there was one figure missing that he had expected to see, and it concerned him.

Thuri stood not with the  _ dunedain _ , nor with the Lady Eowyn and the Rohirrim. He supposed that she might yet be in the House of Healing, still unable to leave her bed for the coronation, but he had never known her to miss something as significant as this. Besides, there was a tension in the Lady Eowyn that he suspected had something to do with his missing companion.

After the coronation, as Aragorn walked the streets of Minas Tirith and the people applauded him, Daervunn contrived to walk alongside the Lady Eowyn as she joined their retinue, having embraced her brother and led the Rohirrim in to join their fellows.

“I know why you have sought me out,” the lady said, her face composed, but her voice tight. “I do not know where she is.”

“She has disappeared?” he asked, keeping the shock from his face, in case Aragorn was paying enough attention to him to catch the words despite the roar of the crowds.

“Thuri woke fifteen days ago, and was walking within a week, beyond the expectations of any of the healers who attended her,” Lady Eowyn said softly, glancing aside to smile at her brother, who had turned to look at them. “When I went to fetch her this morn, her bed was empty and neatly made, all of her things removed from the room. The hostlers at the sixth circle stable say that her horse is no longer there as well.”

“Then she has left by choice then.” Daervunn felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.  _ What had made Thuri leave _ ? 

“There was a letter.” A folded piece of paper appeared from Eowyn’s loose sleeves, and Daervunn tucked it carefully into his belt pouch. “I did not look; it was addressed to you.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

When he reached the quarters allotted to him, an entire suite of rooms with a bedroom, privy, and study just for him, it was far past nightfall. Once Aragorn had reached the throne, the lords of Gondor had presented themselves to him, swearing their fealty to the High King. Daervunn had stood off to the side, a tangible representation of the northern kingdom, and he had watched each of the nobles as they came forward.

He and Halbarad, and Thuri when they were all together in the same place, had occasionally speculated about what would happen if Aragorn reclaimed his forefathers’ throne. Thuri had, oddly enough, focused on speculating about the nobility of Gondor.

_ “Those in power tend to resist changes,” she said as they sat in Halbarad’s quarters, lounging on his bed since Halbarad and Daervunn had claimed the chairs. “Gondorian nobility has had nearly a thousand years to accustom themselves to an empty throne. The Stewards have ruled in absentia, and as such, my lord would be best suited taking in the lay of the land before announcing himself.” _

_ “They ought to immediately swear fealty to him,” Daervunn had said, stretching to toast his feet by the fire in the grate. Winter had settled in like a thick blanket on Esteldin, and the old keep was drafty. “As soon as he’s crowned.” _

_ “It’s easier in the North,” Halbarad said with a shrug. “There are few enough left who can trace their lineage to the old nobility; any northern nobility will likely come from new grants from the king.” _

_ “It’s the southern nobility you have to worry about,” Thuri insisted with a scowl. “Any of our lot who are ennobled, which will be you two and whomever you advise my lord to bestow grants upon, will have years of faithful service behind their claims, and are unlikely to be disloyal now, when all their dreams have come true. Beside, your generation won’t be stable enough to pose a threat to the crown, not when there’s the remnants of Angmar to mop up, and cities and fiefs to rebuild. Maybe your children, but more likely your grandchildren. The southern nobility will have the money, leverage, and connections to cause trouble, and they’re more likely to do that against a king they have no connection to. Especially if the steward is popular.” _

He could remember very little of the rest of the conversation, since they hadn’t dared go into specifics, not with Angmar’s shadow growing longer, and whispers of darker things in the east, but he remembered her adamant belief that the first internal challenge to Aragorn’s reign would come from the southern lords. So Daervunn watched, and he listened, and he noted the things that were not said.

Several of his men, Calenglad included, were mingled in the great hall, taking note of who spoke with whom, and what was said out of earshot of the king and his steward. Faramir of Gondor, Daervunn was happy to say, seemed to be happy that the king had ascended to the throne, if the brief flash of relief that had crossed his face when Aragorn bid him to remain Steward was any indication. He seemed rather close to the White Lady of Rohan as well, though her brother Eomer seemed not to notice the glances the pair traded across the crowded hall. 

There would likely be no trouble from that quarter, but as Daervunn watched, he marked several lords who seemed as if they were only paying lip service to their oaths. They would be ones to watch, but he suspected that nobody had any appetite for regicide so early in the king’s reign, especially after the deeds Aragorn had done on the Pelennor and at the Black Gates.

For now, all Daervunn had to do was trust the guardsmen of Minas Tirith, and Faramir’s own judgement.

Safe in his bedroom, the door closed, he lit the lamp and opened Thuri’s letter. Unsurprisingly, it was brief.

_ Daervunn, _

_ I’m well enough to leave, and nobody made me, so set aside any well-intentioned plans of rescuing me from foes or from myself. _

_ Now that we’ve settled that, I’m returning to the north. My king has a kingdom that needs rebuilding, and at the very least I can bear good news. I can better serve him there than in Gondor. _

_ Please do not call me back; I cannot bear to stay. _

_ When you return, I’ll be in touch. _

_ Thuri _

There was something else there, something she was not telling him, but before he could ponder it, there was a quiet rap at the outer door.

When he opened it, the White Lady of Rohan was there, Faramir behind her.

“She has gone then?” she asked, apparently reading the news in his face.

After they’d settled in the chairs by his fire, Daervunn nodded. “Thuri has returned to the north. She says she cannot bear to stay, and that there is work for her to do in Arnor.”

“King Elessar’s bride will be arriving soon, will she not?” Eowyn’s question made him look at her in surprise, and she quailed, only to gather herself as Faramir gently grasped her hand.

“What does that have to do with Thuri’s departure?”

“If it were me,” Eowyn began, before clearing her throat. “If it were me, and I had not met my lord Faramir, I could not bear to witness it either.”

A thousand thoughts assailed Daervunn at once, and he closed his eyes. He had not seen Thuri pining for Aragorn, she had hidden it well. She and Halbarad had never been more than friends who occasionally sought comfort from each other, and that had ended when Halbarad had become Aragorn’s steward in the north. Halbarad had confided in him that neither he nor Thuri had wanted to suggest that anything improper was happening, since he’d effectively become her only commanding officer with Gilraen’s death.

“My lady Arwen will be arriving soon,” he confirmed. “We have received no message, but her brothers assure me that she would set out from her home when they felt the Black Gates fall.”

“I look forward to meeting the woman who captivates King Elessar so completely,” Eowyn said, and Daervunn was shocked to realized that she was sincere. It was something he hadn’t expected to hear from someone who had just admitted to nursing feelings for Aragorn. 

“She will certainly welcome your friendship.” He felt reasonably confident in saying that. The Lady Arwen had ridden out with her brothers a few times, and Daervunn had met her several times in Imladris. Arwen was kind and generous, but he suspected that she would feel lost and bereft in Gondor, knowing that her heart’s choice had sundered her from her family. “Her close kindred will soon be sailing, and she knows few people outside Imladris.”

“My lady queen is an elf?” Faramir looked shocked. “From the hidden valley?”

“Daughter of Lord Elrond of Imladris, granddaughter of Lady Galadriel, of Lothlorien.” Daervunn couldn’t help but grin as he saw Faramir making the connections. “My lord is very fond of singing the tale of Beren and Luthien. I believe he will soon reintroduce it to the halls of Minas Tirith.”

“Considering that they are his lady’s forebearers, I can understand the attraction.” Faramir still looked dazed. But he collected himself quickly. “Is there anything that must be prepared for her arrival?”

“I’m certain that if you prepared as if you would for any visiting lady, you will be well enough.” Daervunn had seen the Lady Arwen bed down next to the fire like any  _ dunedain _ , but he had also seen her grace her father’s table in a gown beyond anything any woman in Esteldin could dream of. “I suspect that she will be honored by your efforts, regardless of the outcome.”

Conversation turned to other things, and Daervunn found himself liking Faramir. Given what he had heard of the man’s father, Daervunn couldn’t help but be grateful that the son seemed much more amicable. Perhaps they would be able to work well, and bridge the gap between the north and the south that had existed since the days of the Last Alliance.

* * *

From the ruined wall that surrounded the Pelennor, Holly watched as the tiny figure of Aragorn Elessar knelt for Gandalf to place the crown upon his brow. Kreacher sat next to her, spindly legs dangling over the edge of the wall while Nor grazed tranquilly below.

“Well, he’s done it,” she said to Kreacher as the roar of the crowds swelled. “Gondor and Arnor are now reunited under the rule of a single king. It’s only taken three thousand years.”

“Mistress would see better from the city walls,” Kreacher admonished, passing her a flask of tea. “Mistress probably shouldn’t be riding.”

“I’m going to take the northern route, up to Dale and then through Mirkwood,” she reminded him. “The kingdoms sent representatives and  _ they _ said the route was clear enough of danger. And at this time of year, the High Pass into Imladris should be clear enough for a single rider.”

The house elf harrumphed. “Kreacher supposes Mistress knows best.”

“From what  _ I _ heard, the trip down through Dunland was none too easy,” she pointed out. The Grey Company by all accounts had faced a fair bit of opposition as they rode through, and Holly wasn’t interested in seeing if anyone remained who was willing to challenge one sworn to Gondor and Arnor. “Or were the others pulling my leg?”

Kreacher said nothing, which meant that she was probably right. He also likely suspected that she didn’t want to cross paths with the party that was likely going to ride towards Lothlorien on their way to Gondor from Imladris. The High Pass was always an option, but Holly knew it wasn’t advised for large parties, and she doubted Elrond would risk his daughter so close to where his wife had been accosted.

The crowds flowed towards the city, and she stood, stretching gently as she rose. “Ready to get riding?” she asked the house elf, tucking the flask of tea into her belt pouch for later. “I’d like to get a fair distance north before we stop for the night.”

“Mistress is running away again,” the house elf grumbled, as he always did when he wanted her to know what he was thinking, but didn’t feel like addressing her directly. “But Kreacher goes with Mistress. How else could Kreacher take care of his mistress?”

Her face burned with embarrassment at how accurate his words were, but she held her tongue. Yes, she was running away from her fruitless pining for a man she could never have. Aragorn loved Arwen beyond measure, and Holly couldn’t bear to see them bound together and know that he could not love her in the same manner. One day, when the blush of attraction had faded, she would be able to face her King and Queen, but for now, she would return to the north and do her best to help their people.

After all, a king needed a proper kingdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's a wrap folks. I know the ending may not be as...resolved as some might like, but I set out to write this story with the possibility of sequels in mind. You can think of this as...background? Explanation? for how Holly interacted with the War of the Ring.
> 
> I'm not sure when I'll start posting any of the sequels, but the first to post will probably be Pivot Point, which is a Holly/Glorfindel pairing. You can find a teaser snippet on my tumblr- I'm rhosinthorn over there as well. I can't make any promises, but I'll try to provide snippets and other interesting bits as it comes together, so keep an eye on my tumblr for those.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me, and I hope to see you when I start posting the next part in this tale!

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Cold is the Night" by the Oh Hellos. Many thanks to NicholasFlamelFan for beta'ing!


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